


The Whole Wide World

by Violet_Jones



Category: Shameless (US), gallavich - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Artist Ian, Gallavich Week, Gallavich Week 2016, Glasses Mickey, M/M, Meet-Cute, Photographer Mickey, Tattooed Ian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-26 06:17:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7563541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violet_Jones/pseuds/Violet_Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian (an art student with colorful tattoos) & Mickey (a photographer who sometimes wears glasses) meet many miles away from home, when they keep crossing paths at a museum in Madrid, Spain. </p><p>Artwork by <a href="http://steorie.tumblr.com/">Steorie</a></p><p>Written for Gallavich Week 2016 - Day 5 - Different Encounters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

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Ian Gallagher stepped out of the hostel, backpack secured tightly on his shoulders, and let out a sigh of a relief that the weather was looking decent. It was a slightly overcast morning in mid-May, but it wasn’t raining, and that was the main thing.

It was his second day in Madrid, but he’d already been in Spain for almost a week, having started in Barcelona and headed East and then North. He was on a primarily artistic journey, drinking in all of the amazing history and culture that the museums there were bursting at the seams with. It helped that the country was also generally beautiful, making all the train and bus rides worthwhile.

He still hadn’t decided where he was going to go next, but he had another week to fuck off somewhere else in Europe and he was trying to be super spontaneous about the journey, booking things the night before he left to go somewhere so he had just a tiny head start, but it wasn’t all planned out like a boring, normal tourist with their strict adherence to their guidebook recommendations. It gave him a sense of power to just be going with the flow, while also seeming like the master of his own destiny, making all these intricate decisions for himself and really pushing the limits of his ability to stuff in so many cool things into a single day. Plus, there was also the chance of meeting someone who could change the course and maybe guide him somewhere unexpected.

So far, he’d made a lot of single-day friends, because he was a sociable and approachable young guy, staying in a lot of dormitory type situations. But no one had really inspired him to want to scheme up some kind of joint plan and hook up to go somewhere new. In fact, he hadn’t even gotten laid yet on any leg of his trip so far, and it was beginning to bum him out just a little bit. He didn’t exactly plan or expect sex to happen, but of course he had hoped that the opportunity might arise. He’d seen a lot of fucking couples everywhere, straight and gay alike, and it was making him feel irrationally jealous. He’d never noticed the general public being so couple-y back in his hometown. Being single didn’t bother him in the slightest, and what’s more, he kind of fucking loved it. He was only 23 after all, and he was in college, and he was focusing on his art, so sex took a lot of precedent over love and relationships. He had enough friends for companionship. He didn’t need a boyfriend.

But it was different somehow when he was there, so far from home. He was enjoying the fact that he was alone in the wild, not knowing anyone, or anything around him, and he felt so independent and strong, something that it was really hard to feel growing up in his crazy, crowded household, but at the same time, it also made him lonely, like he could do this forever and no one would ever care about him again. There was something both liberating and depressing about that realization.

Fuck, university was making him too goddamn philosophical. He tried to shake off the existential dilemmas whirling around in his mind as he walked towards the nearest Metro station to catch a train to his first museum stop for the day, the Reina Sofia, which was 4 stories tall and filled with masterworks of the Modern Art era. Even if it was only half as good as he was expecting, it was going to be killer. It was the day he would finally get to see Picasso’s _Guernica_ in person. He smiled at the thought.

The hostel he was staying at ended up being really central, so that he only ever had to go a few stops to get anywhere, and coupled with all the walking, he got everywhere within 20 to 30 minutes tops.

Since it was a Sunday in May, and bound to be busy at any museum, he decided to put in some extra effort and arrive before the place even opened. That way he could escape the crowds for at least a few hours of the day, and not have to deal with so many annoying people getting in his way. He was very particular about having decent space and little distraction when he was viewing artwork, paintings in particular.

He turned the corner and headed up the stairs outside the large building, seeing that a line of about 25 to 30 people had already formed. He exhaled audibly and felt glad that it wasn’t so bad. He looked at the time on his phone and saw there were only about 10 minutes until the doors would open. If he went ahead and took an elevator up to one of the higher floors, he could have some of the rooms practically to himself. He started getting more excited, putting his earphones back in and restarting a playlist he’d been building over the course of the trip on his Spotify app.

His excitement started making him antsy, which was making him bounce around slightly on his feet like an overactive toddler. He took an arm out of one strap of his backpack and swung it around, unzipping the front and pulling out a pack of Spanish cigarettes he’d bought in Bilbao, and a disposable lighter. He lost his balance a little as he lit a smoke and kind of stumbled sideways on the stair he was standing on, looking like a total fucking tool, he was sure. He glanced up as he was regaining his footing and noticed a guy up ahead of him in the line, in gray and black plaid with dark, slick-backed hair and thick-rimmed glasses, laughing and shaking his head in Ian’s general direction, but he quickly turned away, facing back toward the closed doors of the building.

If he’d been closer, Ian would’ve told him to fuck off, but it’s not exactly something he could yell out in a crowd in front of one of the most prestigious art museums on the planet. That would just be even more embarrassing. So he smoked his cigarette in silence, and waited.

He’d purchased a museum pass the day before when he went to the Prado, so as soon as the doors were open and most of the other people had to go form another line for tickets, Ian was able to get through security immediately and make his way to one of the elevators, grabbing a map brochure on his way, and randomly deciding to go to the third floor first.

It was a good choice. He immediately found himself in rooms with a heavy dose of Cubism that included a few early Picassos, and the only other person around was the woman whose job it was to stand there watching people, making sure they didn’t do anything stupid around the artwork. He smiled widely and started slowly making his way around the room.

Ian really liked taking his time when he was looking at art. The average person visiting an art museum, it was said, only looked at each work for about 15 to 30 seconds, which was really fucking sad and ridiculous. There was also a new breed of tourist who didn’t actually give a shit at all about what they were seeing, other than to be able to say they saw it, and to take a goddamn selfie in front of it like they were some kind of genius who discovered something. As an artist and an appreciator of art, it offended Ian on a personal level. He wished there were strict etiquette guidelines that people had to follow in museums, but there just weren’t. It was mainly just the standard no flash, no touching, no eating, no yelling.

Pictures were another thing. . . A lot of places wouldn’t allow you to take photographs at all anymore. Sometimes that made Ian sad, because he did like to snap some pictures of works he was particularly fond of after he’d spent enough time studying them, but he’d seen so many people more obsessed with taking photos of the works in front of them than they cared about really taking them in, thinking about them, studying the brushstrokes and the colors, and wondering about the impact they would’ve made at the time they were created. It was really, just a shame. There was so much culture accumulated around the world, and the average person, even when they got fucking right up next to it, couldn’t really be bothered to give two shits about it.

So, Ian liked to make the most of each experience on his travels. He was well aware that there was a low probability he’d ever find himself in front of these works ever again in his life, so he only had one shot as far as he was concerned. He was going to enjoy it as much as possible. Ian’s average time standing in front of a work of art, easily 2 to 4 minutes for stuff he thought was pretty good, and 5 to 10 minutes for stuff he thought was really really good. Stuff he just wasn’t struck by, he’d give it the ol’ passing attention and move on more quickly, like a normo. This meant that he would end up spending at least 4 to 5 hours in any given museum, maybe just 3 if it was a small one, and more like 7 to 8 hours if it was a huge one that required more dedication. He was into it. It’s what he was there for, and he wasn’t going to waste or want any minute.

He worked his way through the rooms in that section, and on his way back through to get to the exit out toward the other galleries down the hall, he noticed Gray Plaid Guy with a giant fucking professional grade camera with a long-ass lens on the front, up super close to a Juan Gris painting, snapping a photo.

Ian snickered and shook his head. It was the first person he’d seen in the museum rooms alongside him, and of course he was all into photographing more than looking. What a douche.

Ian turned his head and kept walking through the large gallery, not noticing the other guy now watching him leave.

  


* * *

  


Mickey Milkovich backed up as close to the brick wall as he could get and tilted his camera up along with his gaze, trying to get the rooftops of the buildings across the street lined up as coolly as possible in his shot, so that there was an interesting composition. He snapped about 6 different angles before moving along down the street.

He’d been surprising himself with how early he was waking up and heading out for the day. He supposed it was the excitement of being on vacation, something that wasn’t exactly a common occurrence in his life. He felt so lucky to be able to finally travel somewhere interesting that he couldn’t help but take advantage of every hour he could squeeze in. He could rest and recuperate once he was back in his bed at home.

He’d been in Madrid for a few days now, mostly walking around doing street photography. He had visited the Prado on his first day, and today he planned on hitting the other two museums that made up the Big Trifecta.

He still had about 45 minutes before the Reina Sofia would be open, but he decided to go ahead and make his way down. He needed to catch two Metros from where he was, so by the time he got there, he should have about 15 to 20 minutes to spare.

His sister, Mandy, had tried to attach herself to his trip, but hadn’t been able to come up with the money or the time off from work. Mickey had acted like he was disappointed for her benefit, but in reality he’d been kind of glad to get to do this on his own. He’d never really been completely on his own at any point in his entire life. Although he was 25 years old, he still lived with four of his siblings in the house they’d grown up in. His parents were long dead, and it was the only good thing they’d left behind for them. A place they didn’t have to spend much money on, and therefore had all grown attached to, purely for the sake of their pocketbooks.

So he didn’t exactly get much privacy, but the arrangement allowed him to pay off his student debt, and simultaneously save money to eventually move to New York, which was where he really wanted to be. It also let him kind of randomly decide to buy a plane ticket to Europe last month. Something just came over him when he was looking at an art book, and he’d ended up on the Lonely Planet website, searching different museums, cities, countries. Then suddenly he was at the bookstore, buying guides, then he was on Expedia buying a ticket. In less than 24 hours, he’d blown an unseemly amount of cash, but he got so fucking excited that he was taking a chance on something purely because he just wanted it.

He immediately applied for a rushed passport, and it arrived exactly one week before he was scheduled to leave. The first Milkovich he’d ever known to have a passport.

And now Mickey was there in a foreign land, staying in small, cheap hotel rooms all to himself, wandering around doing whatever the hell he wanted at any given time, answering to no one, and taking care of no one else’s bullshit. His camera was his only companion, and he fucking loved it.

He finally made his way up the steps to the first museum of the day, and stood behind about 10 or 15 other people waiting for the place to open. He took the opportunity to pull out one of his American cigarettes from his backpack and light up. He was always so caught up in looking for good pictures when he was walking around the city, that he barely even smoked like he typically did back home, where he was always bored and anxious, looking like a fucking chimney half the time. He’d had no idea how relaxing vacations were, even though they held so much excitement and activity. The burden of responsibility and obligation had just faded away.

He turned his head to the left and did a classic double-take when he noticed a hot, tall, pasty, built, redhead with brightly colored tattoos on both arms making his way toward the back of the line. Mickey quickly decided that it was by far the most attractive guy he’d seen on his trip so far, and he had a distinctly American look about him. It was slightly possible he could’ve been Scandinavian or some shit, but Mickey was pretty sure he was a Yank. Interesting.

He took his phone out of his pocket and looked down at the time. Less than 10 minutes to go. He pocketed the phone again and stepped slightly to the left, casually looking around the square behind him, trying to pretend like he wasn’t trying to spot Red Hot again. And just then, the idiot appeared to trip over his own feet, nearly toppling down the stairs behind him as he tried to light a cigarette. Mickey couldn’t help the laugh that escaped, which ended up being spotted by the dude when he happened to look up and right at him as he righted himself on the step. Before he could react, Mickey turned back around, shaking his head involuntarily. What a dumbass.

Once the line started moving inside, Mickey was able to skip it and go ahead through, since he’d bought a pass to the major museums when he’d visited the first one. He made his way into a nook with a bench so he could get his camera ready.

Mickey had gone to art school and gotten way into photography while he was there, which is how it ended up becoming not only his major, but his passion, and his favorite thing to do. It was pretty much the only hobby he’d ever had, and he’d finally started making money off of it the last couple years. He still had a regular job to pay the bills, but he was slowly breaking into the scene, and he had high hopes that things would keep looking up for him creatively.

His camera was the most expensive thing he’d ever owned, and his most prized possession for more than just that basic reason. It was top of the line in every way, and shot both high-res digital and film. He didn’t shoot analog much anymore, because of the hassle and money involved in buying, processing, and printing the film itself, but he did sometimes, when it struck his fancy, or he wanted to challenge himself more on a project. He liked having the option.

When the camera was finally around his neck and ready to go, Mickey made his way to one of the elevators and headed up to the third floor. The first gallery to his right immediately grabbed his attention with Dada Art and he started getting up close to the paintings in the room and figuring out how to best adjust to the lighting.

He was glad that there didn’t appear to be anyone else in that area yet, so hopefully he’d be able to move through multiple rooms without being interrupted by anyone. He was really interested in learning how to properly shoot paintings in a way that captured true color and fine detail, like what you would see in a professional art book, but better. He liked studying things up close through his lens. It was like he could see it better than he could with his naked eye, or like it made more sense to him from that perspective.

He was in the next larger room looking down the viewfinder at a Gris painting a while later when he heard a derisive sort of chuckle somewhere behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw Red Hot himself briskly walking through the room in the opposite direction to the one he was going in.

Was that asshole fucking laughing at _him_?

Mickey watched his back until he disappeared through the doorway, wondering why exactly someone like him would be here in the first place, let alone early in the morning, right when it opened. He didn’t exactly look like the artistic type. He looked more like a jock that went to school on some kinda basketball scholarship. He was probably just mad that Mickey had laughed at his near calamity on the stairs outside. Whatever, fuck him.

Mickey continued his way through that corner of the building, and the next gallery down the hallway was a large one, which he was excited to see contained multiple Dalis. He headed straight for the ones at the far end of the room, standing back a ways so he could take in the full view of two of them side by side, before he started getting up close to examine the details. There still weren’t many people around that area of the museum. Only a few others were milling about the room, however his gaze was drawn to the other side of the large space where he caught sight of Red again, but this time he was staring very fixedly at a painting in front him. Mickey couldn’t make out his features that clearly from a distance, but from what he could tell, there was an actual thoughtfulness and genuine interest on part of the redhead. He was looking at the painting for a really long time actually, compared to the amount of time most people spent on one thing in a museum. Suddenly, Mickey found himself intrigued again. Maybe there was more to Red than met the eye.

He was just about to turn back to the masterpieces in front of him, when of course the object of his curiosity and scrutiny looked over and right at him yet again. Now he was going to think Mickey was straight up creeping on him. Fuck.

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up of their own accord out of some nervous reflex, but then the best thing happened before he could tear his eyes away. . . Red smirked in such a way that it was understood he appreciated the attention. He arched an eyebrow, and held Mickey’s gaze for just a moment too long, before turning his back on him and moving to the next painting facing out from the adjacent wall.

Finally, Mickey managed to get back to the paintings in front of him. Yes, this fucking random hot guy was whetting his appetite, but he couldn’t let himself continue to get distracted like that. He was there for a reason, and that reason had nothing to do with cruising. He needed to regain his focus and immerse himself in the art he’d been so looking forward to. Flirting wasn’t going to get him anywhere as interesting as this.

  


* * *

  


After Ian had caught Glasses Guy blatantly checking him out in one of the galleries, they kept seemingly circling back around each other, and Ian started to notice how fucking cute the guy was. At first sight, he just seemed like your run-of-the-mill hipster with ironic nerd glasses, and the large, flashy camera indicated a high probability of total pretentious bullshit leanings, but upon closer inspection there seemed to be a rough edge about the guy.

First of all, at one point they had ended up close enough that Ian had spotted hilarious, primitive-looking knuckle tats that said ‘FUCK’ on Glasses’ right hand. He wasn’t able to catch the left hand. Maybe it said ‘KILL’ for all he knew. He chortled at the thought. Secondly, something about the guy sort of reminded Ian of the neighborhood he grew up in. Someone who had broken out of a shitty background and started going places. Cultured, but not really polished. Confident, but not totally at ease.

He was still irritated that the guy never put his fucking camera down. He seemed to barely even look at a painting unless the viewfinder was in front of him. But in the end, that wasn’t really Ian’s problem. The interesting thing was that the guy still seemed to take his time with most of the pieces. After all, he was keeping a pretty impressive pace with Ian, judging by how many times they ended up in the same room together, even when they caught elevators to other floors. It was getting more and more ridiculous as the hours went by.

Ian was starting to get pretty hungry, but he vowed to push through until the museum closed, and he would get something on the way to the next museum on his agenda for the day. The Thyssen-Bornemizsa was right down the street, and it had a Dali in it that was one of his all-time favorite pieces. They were also open 4 hours later into the day, and it was a much smaller building.

He made his way up from the second floor to the fourth floor, and of course, Glasses was there in the first gallery he entered, snapping close-ups of a Miro. Ian watched him for a moment, trying to decide if he should just bite the bullet and say something to the guy. Although they hadn’t fully made eye contact again since Ian had caught Plaid red-handed staring right at him, and Ian had silently responded by giving him his patented sexy smile, he was fully aware that the dude had to have noticed how often they kept running into each other.

Before he could think about it too long, he stepped up next to the guy, crossed his arms, and pretended to study the painting in question. In his periphery, he saw Glasses McPlaid pry his eye from his damn camera long enough to do a double-take at seeing Ian standing there right next to him, close enough that he could reach a hand over and smack him.

“We really have to stop meeting like this,” Ian said with a smile, his gaze still firmly directed at the painting. Only once the line was out and he had paused slightly for dramatic effect, did he look over and into the surprising, watery blue of Glasses’ eyes.

The guy snorted. “Real original, Red. You stalkin’ me or somethin’?” he asked Ian in a teasing, but matter-of-fact tone, donning a subtle smile on his face.

Ian huffed a laugh, “ _Me_? You’re the one that keeps staring at me when you think I’m not paying attention. Then I turn around, and you’re gone, and then 20 minutes later, there you are again. It’s like a real life encounter with ‘Where’s Waldo,’ but with added voyeurism.”

“I was merely appreciating how much you seem to appreciate art. Most people you see in museums don’t seem to care too much.”

“Bullshit!” Ian exclaimed a little too passionately. “I mean, you’re right, and maybe I believe that part of that is true, but you should also just admit that you think I’m hot and you were totally checking me out back there.”

It was a bit of a risk to put a stranger on the spot like that, Ian knew, but fuck it. He was on vacation, what did he have to lose?

The guy seemed slightly flustered at first, from Ian’s directness and the way he was still staring at him with his patented sexy smirk which had been known to _do things_ to guys that were so inclined. But he recovered quickly enough. “Maybe,” Plaid said with a shrug of his shoulder and the quirk of an eyebrow, darting his tongue out to lick at the corner of his lips. But he didn’t elaborate any further. Interesting.

“You know you can actually enjoy art more when you put your fucking camera down for two seconds,” Ian then said in a challenging tone.

“Damn, Red, you don’t know me like that!”

“Do I have to? I think it’s a general rule of thumb for anyone in a gallery. How are you gonna really be there in the moment with what you’re observing if you’re hiding behind that thing the whole time?” Ian asked in what sounded like a rhetorical way, but the guy answered him anyway.

“You think I’m not paying attention to detail?” he asked, incredulously. “C’mere.” He gestured Ian closer with his hand and indicated that he should look through the camera at the shot he’d just had lined up.

Ian heeded the invitation and bent down slightly to look through the finder. He was surprised at how stark the bright colors and cracks in this particular painting stood out. It was actually impressive.

“Hmm,” Ian murmured, conceding. “Do the actual shots appear as vivid as the real thing, though?”

“Actually, yeah,” the guy told him. “I shoot in fuckin’ RAW, and this camera is the fuckin’ tits. I’m not gonna lay out all the specs for you, unless you know what the hell I’m talkin’ about, but trust me, I’ve never dropped so much money in my life as I did payin’ for this thing. I go through SD cards quick as shit, but it’s worth it.”

Ian couldn’t help but smile. From the way Glasses talked, he could tell he’d been right about him. . . Rough around the edges, and probably grew up poor like Ian, but had found a creative outlet that took over his life. It was a feeling Ian was familiar with. It was how he felt about his own art.

“Show me,” Ian said, tilting his head at the camera.

Plaid put it in display mode and held it in front of him so he could click through some of his recent shots. Ian had to admit that what was captured was pretty solid. The quality was unbeatable, and even though he was basically just documenting someone else’s creations, he could tell that the guy had a good eye, and knew how to make the most out of the weird lighting the galleries provided, without the benefit of using a flash.

“Not bad, Glasses,” Ian finally said after flipping through about 20 shots. “I guess you _can_ see through all those lenses you put in front of your eyeballs.”

“Glasses?” the guy intoned.

“Red?” retorted Ian.

The guy rolled his eyes, but smiled very cutely. “Whatever, I’m Mickey.”

He didn’t offer a hand, so Ian stuck his out first. “Ian,” he replied, wearing a full smile of his own.

Mickey glanced at his hand apprehensively before deciding to take it in his own. They shook briefly, but Ian prolonged the contact by pointedly not releasing his grip when it would have been socially appropriate to do so.

Mickey let out a small, soft kind of giggle that made it worth it. Ian knew how to turn on the charm when he wanted to, and apparently he hadn’t lost his touch yet.

“So, you done judging me then, _Ian_?” Mickey asked, once Ian had finally let go of his hand.

“Maybe,” Ian replied, shrugging. “Haven’t decided yet.”

Mickey laughed. “So that’s a ‘no’ then.”

“It’s not a ‘no,’” Ian reiterated, “it’s a ‘maybe,’ just like I said.”

“Yeah, well, we have less than an hour now before this place closes, so. . .”

“So. . .” Ian raised his eyebrows with a questioning tone in his voice, trying to coax an ending to the sentence out of the guy in front of him.

“So, you know. . . ‘As you were,’ I guess?” said Mickey.

“Are you telling me to fuck off?” Ian inquired in mock disbelief.

Mickey shook his head, tittering. “I’m just telling you that, you know, we should each finish what we came here for.”

“Okay,” Ian answered. “What are you doing after this?”

“Why?”

“Curious.”

“I was gonna head down the street to another museum,” Mickey said. “I’m not gonna be in the city much longer.”

“No shit,” replied Ian. “The Thyssen-Borna-whatever?”

Mickey chuckled. “Bornemizsa, yeah.”

“That’s exactly where I was gonna go,” Ian told him. “Stopping for food first, though. Wanna come with?”

Mickey gave him a blatant once over, like he had to think on it a bit. Ian’s smile got wider. This fucking guy was adorable.

“A’ight,” Mickey finally responded.

“K. Meet you on the front steps in 45?” Ian said, already backing away to move onto the next thing he wanted to check out.

“Pssh, you act like we’re not gonna see each other like 5 times by then. Your ass‘ll probly be waitin’ for me on the elevator.”

Ian’s smile wouldn’t go away as he counted down the minutes in his head until the rendezvous.

  


* * *

  


Mickey found Ian standing outside smoking a cigarette, arching his back and stretching his arms out, with his backpack at his feet next to him leaning against his leg. Mickey paused, unseen for a moment and appreciated the sinewy movements, noting the way the bold hues of Ian’s tattoos stood out so arrestingly in the sunlight now beaming down. Ian was beautiful, there was no mistaking it.

Without thinking twice about it, Mickey lifted the camera still in his hands and snapped some photos of the man until he looked over and straight into his lens. He took that as his final shot, and lowered the contraption with a shy smile.

Ian shook his head as Mickey approached, but he was smiling teasingly. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were a total creeper.”

Mickey pulled out his own cigarette pack and lit one up before replying, “How _do_ you?”

Ian quirked an eyebrow questioningly.

“Know any better?” Mickey clarified. “I could be the biggest pervert on the planet for all you know. We’ve had like 10 minutes total conversation so far.”

Ian exhaled the last wisp of smoke from his cig and smirked, shaking his head again. “I can just tell.” He paused as if weighing whether he should say the next thing that Mickey could tell was on the tip of his tongue. He looked Mickey right in the eye then, and gave in. “You’re sweet.”

Mickey laughed hard and deep at that, taking another hit, “Dude, I don’t think anyone has ever called me sweet in my entire fuckin’ life. Not even as a child.”

Ian’s smile widened. “Maybe they don’t know the real you, or the ones that do have old ideas of who you are. It happens. I’ve been there.”

“You really think you’ve got my number, stranger?” Mickey asked skeptically, but still grinning.

Ian’s gaze was still unwavering, and it was beginning to unnerve Mickey. No one usually looked him in the eye like that. At least not for very long, and never so damn softly and interestedly.

“We’re not strangers anymore, are we?” Ian replied, picking up his backpack. “Come on, let’s get going.”

They decided to just grab sandwiches and drinks from a small market on their way to the other museum, and sat outside in the small courtyard in front of the building, on a stone bench underneath a tree.

Mickey snickered as they unwrapped their food.

“What?” asked Ian, taking a bite.

“Nothing,” Mickey replied. “I guess I was just thinkin’ how this is practically a fuckin’ picnic or some shit.” He paused. “I’ve never had one before.”

Ian smiled delightedly, “Huh. So, no one’s ever called you sweet, and no one’s ever eaten a sandwich with you outside in nature. Have you ever been picked up in a museum in Europe before?”

Mickey laughed. “Never met anyone in a museum, period. Never met anyone in Europe either. Barely ever been on vacation before. I went to New York once with my sister, that’s it.”

Ian positively looked like the proverbial cat who ate the canary. “So that’s. . .” he paused again counting on his fingers, “one, two, three, _four_ things so far that I’ve been your first for, and we’ve only known each other less than two hours. Not bad.”

Mickey felt himself blush, which he never fucking did _ever_ , and he hooked a finger in his collar, pulling on it and shaking it to air himself out a little. “You sayin’ you’ve done all those things before?”

“Mmm, well, I _have_ been called sweet before, but mostly by my sister, but maybe one or two other people too. I don’t usually fucking picnic, but yeah, my family likes to eat outside in parks and shit, cuz we’ve always had a lot of little kids around the house, but I’ve never done it like _romantically_. I may have met a guy in a museum before, but not in Europe, but I have met people here in Europe and hung out with them, because I’m annoyingly social most of the time. This is my first time here too. I’ve also been to New York, and I went to California once with my brother.”

“So I got one on you then,” Mickey said.

“So far,” Ian answered, smirking impishly again.

Mickey rolled his eyes. This fucking guy. “Isn’t it a bit presumptuous of you to assume this is romantic, though?” he asked him.

“ _Is it_?” Ian said in a snarky tone.

“I don’t really do romance, dude. Never have, and don’t see it happenin’ any time soon.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t usually do romance either. It’s just a figure of speech,” Ian countered.

“Somehow I find that hard to believe with this whole charming act you’ve got goin’. Seems to fit you like a fuckin’ glove,” Mickey accused.

“It’s not an act,” Ian responded in a slightly offended way. “I’ve always been charming, but I’m not exactly the boyfriend kind.”

“Oh yeah?” Mickey queried. “You a player?”

Ian gave an exaggerated eye-roll at that. “A _player_? What is this, the 90s? No, I’m not a _player_ , I just tend to keep things casual. I’m too young to settle down. I’m in college, so I can pretty much do whatever I want for a while. I’m being smart and taking advantage of all life has to offer.” He smirked.

“You mean all the _dick_ life has to offer,” Mickey quipped, peeking his tongue out into the corner of his mouth, before taking another bite of his sandwich.

Ian chuckled. “More like all the _ass_ ,” he corrected, raising an eyebrow at Mickey as if testing him.

Mickey felt yet another fucking blush overtake his cheeks, and he wanted to hide his face, because it was so embarrassing that this guy kept getting his goat like that. He didn’t though, because that would be weird and childish, so instead he just said nothing and finished his meal.

Ian crammed his last bit of sandwich into his large mouth and spoke through his chewing, like a barbarian. “Let’s get the fuck inside so we don’t miss anything.”

They went through the museum pretty comfortably, not worrying about interacting much, except when they both really seemed to be absorbed by the same work or artist. They both shared a deep enthusiasm for Dali and Kandinsky, specifically, and there were a couple of vibrant Monet’s that it was hard for Ian to tear himself away from. Mickey got a couple shots of him staring at one intently, because he couldn’t stop himself.

In fact, Mickey was barely registering how casually he ended up including Ian in many of his photos throughout the evening. It wasn’t even an afterthought, he just did it, and Ian didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he definitely didn’t seem to mind.

It was a really cool museum, though, covering more periods and styles than the previous one had, even though it was half the size. There were a few sections that didn’t really interest either of them, and they respectfully bypassed those with casual once overs, but what did interest them was all top-notch material.

Ian stood in front of Dali’s Pomegranate-Bee-Elephant-Tiger-Fish-Rifle-Naked Lady painting (Mickey could never remember the actual name of the piece) for like 20 minutes, because it was an all-time favorite of his. Mickey stayed with him the whole time, first studying the painting as well, and taking photos, and then just sort of watching Ian, and taking photos of him.

By the time they left, the museum was closing and it was only a quarter past 7 pm. They walked back over to the same bench they’d been sitting on earlier, and took off their backpacks to have a brief rest.

Ian started stretching his upper body out again, and Mickey couldn’t help but notice the way his t-shirt rode up just enough that he could catch a hint of the taught, pale skin, and deep cut vee of his lower torso disappearing tantalizingly below the waistline of his jeans.

He gulped and reached for the cigarettes in his bag, as well as a water bottle. When he looked back over, Ian had pulled out the same things from his own bag, and was taking a long, deep chug of water, with his head tilted back and eyes squeezed shut, and Mickey’s own gaze was glued to the motion of Ian’s adam’s apple as he swallowed.

Of course, Ian opened his eyes and looked over right then, and completely caught Mickey in the act of ogling, because he was like a fucking psychic when it came to Mickey checking him out while he wasn’t supposed to be paying attention.

Mickey quickly turned his head and stuck a cigarette in his mouth, lighting it without preamble, and stretching his legs out in front of him, rotating his ankles as he flexed his calves to get some of the kinks out.

“So. . .” Ian began, lighting his own cigarette, “what do you wanna do now?”

Mickey looked back over at him and furrowed his brow. “You wanna keep hangin’ out?”

“Yeah,” Ian said in a voice that made it sound like that should be obvious, and he shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Mickey was slightly at a loss. Yeah, it was comfortable so far, hanging out with Ian, but he’d always been a loner most of the time, when he wasn’t crammed into his house with all of his degenerate siblings. And even then, he spent most of his time in his room, doing his own thing. And sure, he’d had some flings with various guys, but he was usually too standoffish and aloof to keep anyone’s interest for long. He had a hard time letting people in, generally speaking. He was still unsure of what exactly Ian thought he saw in him, because whatever he’d said before about being casual, there was something about being around Ian that didn’t seem like it was a fleeting thing. And that shit was scary.

“Dunno,” Mickey finally replied. “I just. . . I’m not that interesting, man. Keep hangin’ out with me long enough and you’ll catch on to that.”

Ian let out an exasperated sort of sigh. “Great. You’re one of those self-deprecating, doesn’t-know-how-great-he-is kind of dudes, huh? Fucking figures.”

“Exactly,” Mickey affirmed. “See. Not worth it.”

“Wait a minute,” Ian said softly, placing a light touch on Mickey’s forearm. “That’s not what I said, and not what I meant to imply. I don’t really care what your self-image is, to be honest, just don’t do that stupid shit where you push people away because of it, okay? I mean, we may never see each other again, and this could be our fucking _Before Sunrise_ moment in life, but who cares? Let’s just see what happens. I mean. . . why not, right?”

Mickey paused pensively and sucked on his smoke before looking back into Ian’s sure and steady gaze. How the fuck did this happen that he met _this_ guy, in _this_ place, at _this_ time? He seemed to actually _want_ Mickey. . . Want him in a way that he wasn’t sure anyone had before. And of course it would be his fucking luck that they were halfway around the world from where his real life actually took place, too far removed to be sustainable and lasting. Of course he would find this guy and only get to keep him for one day.

When he decided to respond, he went the gentle jest route. “Fuckin’ _Before Sunrise?_ _Really_? Didn’t take you for a hetero romance film aficionado.”

Ian snorted. “Well, seeing as you know what movie I’m referring to, I’m assuming you’ve seen it too, so fuck off.”

Mickey shook his head and smirked derisively. “It was my fuckin’ sister. Made me watch it one time. Can’t believe I made it through the whole thing, really. Buncha ‘Intro to Philosophy’ type bullshit.”

“Whatever, I bet you secretly loved it. Come on,” he got up gesturing for Mickey to follow. And he did.

  


* * *

  


Ian couldn’t believe his newfound luck. Meeting Mickey was rapidly becoming a highlight of his trip, and he’d only known him for a matter of hours. There was just something about the guy that evoked the kind of fondness he wasn’t used to feeling for the guys he usually crossed paths with. Yes, Ian made it a habit to do his best in picking people to be with that he could keep at arms length, so that they were easily disposable and no one could ever get hurt, but there was also the deeper truth of how hard it was to actually meet someone that you just had that undeniable spark with. The kind that just took on a life of its own, and sort of overwhelmed everything around it. He felt powerless to stop it, and the weird part was that he didn’t want to. Yeah, he wanted to fuck this guy, but he also wanted to _more than_ fuck this guy. He wanted to know everything about him, and he barely knew anything at all, which meant they had a long way to go with a very little amount of time to get there.

It was a dangerous game they were playing, because sure, they could have an amazing night together and everything could end up sunshine and rainbows, but the harsh reality was that it would soon disappear anyway when they each had to go their separate ways. _Of course_ Ian would start falling for some guy on another continent that he wouldn’t have to deal with on his home fucking turf. He was sure there was a lot of insight his therapist could give him on what all that signified.

Ian had taken the lead when they left the museum, and they’d hopped on the Metro and headed to a famous cobblestone street lined with the best tapas bars in the city, walking through the throngs of people until they found an appealing looking place that didn’t have as big of a crowd as most of the others they’d passed on the way.

Mickey had snapped pictures the whole way, and Ian found that it only made his attraction increase faster by the hour.

They still had to wait over half an hour to get a table, but they stood at the bar drinking red wine until they could be seated, and finally started getting to the basic sort of getting-to-know-you type shit that they seemed to have skipped over in the first hours they’d spent together.

“So, Mickey. . . The dreaded first date questions. . .” Ian began.

Mickey almost spit out his wine, but saved it at the last minute, much to Ian’s amusement. “What the fuck? We’re on a fuckin’ _date_ now?”

Ian chuckled. “What exactly did you _think_ was happening this whole time, man?”

“Uhhh, I dunno,” Mickey admitted with a shrug. “I guess I don’t tend to label things?”

“Yeah, whatever, Tough Guy. It’s a fuckin’ date. Deal with it.”

Ian watched with interest as an array of emotions played out on Mickey’s adorable visage, before he finally seemed to accept the reality of Ian’s words.

“Fuck. Okay.” And that was that.

“So, Mickey. . .” Ian started again, and Mickey gave him a playful shove, causing him to laugh and slosh a bit of wine onto the bartop. “Careful! You’re not supposed to push your dates around. That’s bad form.”

“Stop bein’ an asshole, then,” Mickey replied, smirking.

“Alright, fine. Seriously, though, you sound midwestern as fuck. Where are you from?”

“Chicago.”

Ian froze for a moment and his eyes went wide. “No fuckin’ shit!”

Mickey looked back at him with furrowed brow. “Don’t fuckin’ tell me that we’re from the same city. That’s ridiculous, and I will call bullshit.”

“I swear to fucking god, I’m from Chicago. Well, technically, right now I’m from Madison, Wisconsin where I go to school, but originally, I’m from the South Side.”

“Fuck you, you’re South Side,” Mickey retorted in a flat, disbelieving tone.

“You are too, _aren’t you_? I fucking _knew_ it! I don’t know how, but you just had this vibe about you that reminded me of home. Like, I completely thought I was wrong, but I was thinking it earlier. That’s so crazy! What are the odds?”

“You better not be fuckin’ with me, Red,” Mickey said. “You gonna _Fatal Attraction_ my ass back in The States?”

Ian laughed. “I promise you, man. I’m one of the Gallaghers. Ever heard of us?”

“Gallagher? As in fuckin’ _Frank_ fuckin’ Gallagher?”

“Yes!” Ian exclaimed. “That’s my asshole drunk deadbeat dad!”

“Ho-ly shit,” Mickey answered, pausing briefly as if to ponder his next words. “I’m a fuckin’ Milkovich.”

“What! As in _Terry_ Milkovich?”

“One and the same. That’s my raging psycho shithead father. Luckily, he’s been dead for a while now.”

“Wow. Yeah, I heard about you guys. Doing all kinds of crazy shit back in the day. Is that why you have those sweet, sweet knuckle tats?”

Mickey flushed slightly, looking down at this hands. “Pretty much. Got ‘em when I was all of 13. Greatest decision I ever made, obviously. But, I’ve gone legit since the old man died, and most of my brothers have cleaned up their act, at least they don’t do the worst of what we used to. Pretty sure there’s still some low-level dealin’ goin’ on, but they try to hide it from me.”

“That’s just. . .” Ian began. “I can’t believe we’re from the same fucking place. How have we never met before?”

Mickey shrugged. “I wasn’t really much for school back in the day. By the time I realized that I actually wanted to learn, I was old enough for it to be embarrassing if I tried to go back to high school, so I just started readin’ a bunch and took the GED. Decided I wanted to go to art school, and applied to the AI. Somehow managed to get in there and that’s when I got into photography. I thought at first I was just gonna draw. I mean, that’s how I got in. Thought it was my only talent, but now I prefer cameras 100%.”

“That’s impressive, Mick.” Ian didn’t know where the shortened version of his name came from, but he decided to go with it. “Most people don’t make it out. I didn’t think I would.”

“Yeah, well, technically I haven’t made it out yet. I’m still livin’ in the house I grew up in. Me and my siblings own it, so it’s like the one thing I don’t have to worry about so much. . . roof over my head. I’ve been savin’ up for a long time though. I wanna move to New York eventually.”

“Me too,” Ian agreed. “I guess all artists wanna move to New York, right?”

“That’s what they say,” Mickey said. “What kinda art do you do?”

“I’m mainly a painter, but I’ve also started working with sculpture in the last year or so, and I recently did my first large scale installation.”

“Damn. You any good?”

Ian laughed. “I mean, I’m good enough to do well in art school, but I haven’t really done anything outside of student shows, so I guess it remains to be seen if I can hack it in the real world.”

“I bet you’re good,” Mickey said, his voice sounding softer than it had all night.

Ian’s whole face lit up at the words, and he felt suddenly bashful at the way Mickey was looking at him. There was an openness that hadn’t been there earlier. But before Ian could open his mouth to respond, a waiter came up to inform them that they finally had a table available.

They ended up ordering an insane amount of tapas, which they shared, while downing an entire bottle of wine each, giggling tipsily at the most inane things, and telling stories of their travels so far. They’d been sat by the window, at a table so small that Ian’s knees kept knocking against Mickey’s accidentally throughout the meal. The lighting was low and there was a candle on the table, flickering. Mickey told him about going South to Granada and how beautiful it was. Ian told him about camping on the Mediterranean in the East and how beautiful it was. They promised to show each other pictures later. It was basically the most perfect date Ian had ever been on in his life, and it had just kind of happened on accident.

The street was markedly less crowded once they stumbled out of the bar that night, after chugging a pitcher of water each and popping some preemptive Extra Strength Excedrins that Ian always kept on his person. They ambled slowly back in the direction of the Metro station, and Ian started to get nervous about how things were going to play out. He decided to just go for it.

“So I would invite you back to mine, but I’m staying in a fucking dormitory only hostel, and I think that would be weird.”

Mickey didn’t skip a beat like Ian had expected him to, and instead immediately said, “Let’s go to mine then.”

  


* * *

  


Mickey had brazenly asked Ian back to his tiny hotel room, and he hadn’t felt remotely weird about it at all, until they were standing right outside the door where he was struggling with the key that wouldn’t fucking turn correctly. It just kept going around in circles without catching, and it was frustrating as fuck. Ian was fucking giggling behind him like it was the most hysterical thing that ever happened to anyone.

“Bitch, why don’t you fuckin’ try it then?” Mickey finally exploded, exasperated, yanking the key out of the slot and throwing it on the ground dramatically.

That just made Ian laugh harder. “You’re so cute,” he said, bending down to retrieve the key, and Mickey got a peek at his lower back where his t-shirt rode up, while of course mainly watching his ass.

Ian got the key in the lock, turned if over three times, and the door swung open, making the giggle fit start up again.

“Motherfucker!” Mickey half-shouted once the door was closed behind him. “Of fucking course it would just open right up for you. You’re like the animal whisperer of inanimate objects.”

Ian guffawed, wiping at his teary eyes. “That makes absolutely no sense.”

“Shut up, Golden Boy,” Mickey warned, throwing his backpack down on the ground next to the door.

Ian followed suit, setting his next to Mickey’s, and kicking off his shoes into the corner like he owned the place.

“Please make yourself at home, Your Royal Highness,” Mickey teased.

“Why thank you, Sir,” Ian answered, flopping down on the bed unceremoniously and leaning back on his elbows to watch Mickey.

“What are you fuckin’ lookin’ at, Red?”

Ian chuckled again, “You like nicknames, don’t ya, Mick?”

“Eh, I never noticed,” he said, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“Yeah!” Ian hollered. “Take it off!”

Mickey gave him a murderous look, and immediately stopped what he was doing. Ian quirked an eyebrow at him in that annoying way of his, and Mickey had no choice but to tackle him.

Ian was laughing riotously again as they fought for dominance on the mattress, even before Mickey started tickling him. It took all of 90 seconds for one thing to lead to another, and suddenly Ian’s lips were on Mickey’s, and his nimble fingers were simultaneously undoing the remaining buttons of his shirt. As soon as the shirt slipped over his shoulders and off, Mickey pulled back and tugged Ian’s over his head, throwing it somewhere behind him, and crashing their lips back together, opening them up to tongues and teeth messily colliding in the most delicious way.

And then Ian’s hands were undoing Mickey’s jeans, and slipping inside the back of his boxers, kneading the flesh of Mickey’s ass as he moaned into the kiss.

Mickey reached for Ian’s fly and undid his pants as well, reaching a hand in to grasp his swollen cock. And it was fucking big, which got Mickey even more excited. He started stroking it inside the underwear, reaching his other arm around Ian’s lower back to press him forward and keep him steady as he jacked him off.

“Fuck, Mick,” Ian breathed out, leaning his head back. “Get the rest of these fucking clothes off.”

Ian gasped as Mickey’s hand pulled away, but he seemed to recover quickly as he watched him get naked, realizing he needed to do the same. He jumped up on the bed, pulling down his jeans and briefs in one fell swoop and stepped out of them, flinging them across the room with one foot. Mickey chortled as he made his way to the bathroom to retrieve a small bottle of lube and a condom from his bag of toiletries. Yes, Mickey Milkovich had a goddamn travel bag for his personal care products. He silently made fun of himself until he walked back in and saw Ian spread out on the bed in all his glory.

He felt like he had the wind knocked out of him a little bit. Ian had a few more tattoos on his torso, and he had his arms folded back underneath his head with his long legs straight out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, looking oh so fucking casual, with this goddamn huge raging boner sticking up against his belly, and a lazy grin on his face. It was one of the hottest things Mickey had ever seen in his life.

Mickey’s mind should’ve immediately gone to jumping him then and there. Instead, Mickey’s mind immediately went to his camera and how much he wanted to capture Ian like that, laid out for him, waiting for him. And fuck it, he was just tipsy enough to come out and ask.

“Would you let me take a few pictures of you first? You can say no if you think it’s weird.”

But Ian didn’t hesitate. “Go for it.”

“Don’t move!” Mickey said as he darted across the room to his backpack and pulled out his camera, quickly making some adjustments, before he began shooting.

“You sure you don’t want me to move?” Ian asked after he’d snapped about ten of the same pose.

“Yeah, okay. If you don’t mind doing it. Have you ever modeled before?”

“I’ve posed for some drawing classes for extra cash before, but never with a hard-on, fortunately.”

“A’ight,” Mickey said, “do your thing, then.”

On cue, Ian uncrossed his legs and bent one knee with his foot flat on the bed, while moving the opposite arm out straight to the side, at first still staring straight into the camera, and then directing his gaze and his head farther and farther to the side.

Mickey climbed up onto the bed and stood looking down the lens from above Ian’s prone form. “Look back up at me,” he instructed, and Ian obeyed. “Now move to your side and let me get some of your back muscles in there.”

Ian moved so that he was laying on his side, but with his torso twisted so that he was face down, keeping his ass mostly in profile while most of his back was exposed, subtly flexing his muscles, as he turned his head from the side slowly back around, tilting it in different directions before his gaze was back on Mickey and the camera.

“Fuck, you’re pretty good at this,” Mickey praised.

“Yeah? Does that mean you got some great shots and we can fuck now?” Ian asked, flipping back over so that his erection was back on full display.

Mickey snickered, jumping off the bed, and setting the camera down on the small desk behind him. “I think that can be arranged.” He took his glasses off and set them aside as he grabbed the lube and the condom he’d put down there earlier and tossed them over to Ian.

“Get me ready then, Big Boy,” Mickey said as he crawled up the bed and over Ian’s body.

“Sir, yes Sir,” Ian said with a mock salute, and flipped them so that he was now hovering over Mickey, grinning down at him.

Mickey’s mind quickly clouded over as Ian prepped him with slick fingers, and he was soon writhing and moaning atop the bedsheets, stroking his cock lazily as he was stretched open.

Suddenly, Ian’s fingers were gone and Mickey’s eyes flew back open. He watched as Ian tore open the condom and rolled it down onto himself, before drizzling some lube over it and jerking himself to spread it around.

“Mmm, get the fuck in me right now,” Mickey demanded.

Ian smiled a little and grabbed Mickey’s knees, raising them up and pushing them forward and out a bit, before moving his right hand back to guide his dick into Mickey’s waiting hole.

He pushed in so fucking slowly, and it was so good. Mickey couldn’t help the long moan that accompanied that sweet slide and squeeze, and the overwhelming feeling of fullness overtaking him. It was so slow, like he was this fragile thing that couldn’t possibly take anything more. It was a steadily increasing throb and burn pushing heat up higher and higher in his body.

“Fuck!” Ian huffed once he was finally inside, to the hilt. He stopped moving completely for a moment, giving Mickey time to adjust, but Mickey couldn’t fucking bear it anymore.

“Ian! Fucking fuck me already!”

And he did. He pulled out almost all the way, so just the head was still breaching him, and then slammed back in deep, pulling a loud moan from Mickey’s throat. And then he did it again, and one more time, and Mickey felt like he would die the greatest death anyone had ever died. But he didn’t. Ian’s strokes got shorter, but he didn’t let up on how hard he was going. It was just the way Mickey liked it. Good and hard and fast and fucking perfect. Ian felt fucking huge inside him, and he fucking loved it. He roamed his hands up Ian’s back and grabbed at his arms, feeling the power of them as they flexed with the burden of holding Mickey’s legs in the air. He looked up into Ian’s face and the ecstasy that had overtaken his features, sweat dripping down from his hairline, mouth hanging wide open, eyes screwed tightly shut. Fuck, he was hot.

Mickey reached for Ian’s head and pulled him down into a sloppy kiss, and they shifted their bodies so that Mickey’s legs were now wrapped around his waist, and the bulk of Ian’s weight was now resting on Mickey.

Ian moaned into his mouth and Mickey moved one hand down to fondle his ass as it pumped, keeping the other hand buried in the longish red strands of Ian’s hair. Ian moved his own large hands from the sides of Mickey’s face, over his neck and shoulders, down to his waist, skimming over Mickey’s body until he could reach around to his ass, gripping it tightly as he began pumping his hips harder and faster.

“Oh, fuck!” cried Mickey.

“Oh yeah, your ass is fucking amazing, Mick,” Ian said breathily, and like magic, he was hitting Mickey’s prostate just right, and it was impossible for Mickey to be even remotely quiet anymore.

“Oh shit, I’m gonna come,” Mickey warned, and Ian started thrusting impossibly faster. The old shitty bed they were on was squeaking prominently, the headboard banging against the wall; the combined sounds, along with their incessant moaning, echoing around the small room, but neither of them could stop to care.

And then Mickey let out a series of whines, and he came in spurts between their bodies while Ian rode it out, following him shortly after with a loud groan.

And then they lied there in a sticky, sweaty heap, breathing heavily, vision swimming.

And then they were asleep.

  


* * *

  


Ian awoke the next morning slightly disoriented at first. He felt himself wrapped around someone’s body, which hadn’t happened in a fairly long time. It was warm, and it was comfortable. It was nice. He inhaled deeply before opening his eyes, and while it mostly smelled like the heady mix of sweat, semen, and over-all sex, there was also a trace of something sweet and unfamiliar that he was being drawn to.

Then he did open his eyes, and they fell upon messy raven hair, and Ian smiled broadly. Mickey. Mickey Milkovich.

He gave a small sleepy snigger. The name sounded like a fictional character from a trashy novel or something.

“The fuck you gigglin’ about this early, Firecrotch?” he heard a thick, sleep-soaked voice utter in front of him.

“Firecrotch?” Ian asked, voice in a similar state. “That’s a new one.”

They continued to lie there, spooning in silence until at least 5 or 10 minutes had passed. And then Mickey shifted onto his back and Ian followed suit, his right arm still underneath Mickey’s neck.

“Fuck man, I’m worn the fuck out,” Mickey said.

“Yeah,” responded Ian, “my cock’ll do that to you.”

Mickey snorted. “You’re a conceited little prick, aren’t you?”

“Not so little,” Ian kidded.

“Yeah, I noticed. Pleasant surprise.”

“You couldn’t tell that I’d be hung based on my stature and build?”

“Eh, I’ve been burned by those assumptions before,” replied Mickey.

“Touché.”

“So uh. . .” Mickey began awkwardly, and Ian could tell what was coming. “I’m leavin’ the city this afternoon.”

He still couldn’t help sighing. “Yeah, I kind of thought so.”

“What are you doin’ the rest of your trip? I never asked you.”

“I don’t know yet,” Ian admitted. “I’m gonna head to a city in another country, but I haven’t decided which. I’m a fly by the seat of my pants kinda guy. I was thinking either Amsterdam, Brussels, Berlin, or Paris.”

He heard Mickey give a sharp intake of breath, and he seemed to stiffen underneath him.

“What?” asked Ian.

“I uh. . . I’m going to Paris.”

“Seriously?” Ian said a little too loudly for early morning pillow talk.

“Yeah, seriously.”

“That’s cool.” Ian didn’t really know what else to say. He couldn’t just invite himself along or anything. That would be really fucking weird. But the silence started to stretch out uncomfortably to a point where it started to bother him. They didn’t have to part awkwardly. Everything thus far had been too good to end on even a remotely sour note. Ian would take it like a fucking man and gracefully make his exit so they could both move on with their lives. Except Mickey would have a bunch of hot photos to remember him by, and Ian would have fuck all in terms of physical reminders. Soon, the image of Mickey’s face would fade from his memory and become a composite sort of figment of his imagination. But there was nothing he could do now, except refuse to spoil it.

So Ian sat up in the bed and stretched his arms and back. “I’m sure you’ll have an amazing time. Especially since you love street photography so much. They have the best in the world according to every travel book ever. It’ll be a lot of fun.” He said it and he meant it, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at Mickey as the words were being spoken. He thought he’d lose his nerve. So he said it to the wall in front of him, and he was about to crawl out from under the sheet covering him and start dressing when he felt Mickey’s hand move to stop him. It was tentative and soft. Just a small caress on his shoulder lightly pulling to get his attention. So he turned his head back to look down at Mickey’s cute, sleepy face.

“It’d probly be a lot more fun if you came too,” Mickey told him.

Ian was shocked. “You. . . _Really_? You wanna go together?”

Mickey shrugged. “Yeah, why not?”

And they both watched one another as their faces slowly lit up with genuine smiles.

“You sure?” asked Ian.

“Pretty sure,” answered Mickey.

“What if it’s terrible? I don’t wanna ruin your vacation.”

“If it’s terrible, we go our separate ways, easy peasy. No harm, no foul, etcetera. But it won’t be.”

Ian let out a soft chuckle. “Yeah, I know it won’t be.”

“Alright then,” Mickey said. “Looks like we gotta book you a plane ticket.”

Ian beamed and fell back onto the bed.

  


  


*


	2. Paris × Chicago ÷ Madison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise!

“This is either extremely creepy, or extremely romantic,” said Mandy, walking around in a circle, studying each black and white print Mickey had strung up and lining the walls of his bedroom.

“Fuck off,” Mickey replied, tsking, his arms firmly crossed as he watched her reactions closely.

“I mean… Yowza!” she turned to him with a thinly plucked arched eyebrow and a huge toothy smile, her mouth so used to forming at least half a sneer, that her upper lip always quirked to one side. Mickey rolled his eyes and bit his tongue as she continued unnecessarily, “He’s got a big dick.”

“Yeah, I noticed that,” he stated, undeterred.

His sister licked her lips lasciviously. “I bet you did more than _notice_ it.”

He threw his hands up at last. “Okay, that’s enough. I didn’t ask you to look at these so you could perv out on my… _whatever he is_ … I need your objective opinion about the artistic value of the series as a whole.”

Mandy snorted. “I still can’t believe how much you give a shit about stuff like ‘artistic value’ now. It’s so weird.”

Mickey exhaled loudly in frustration. “I knew it was a mistake askin’ for your dumbass, useless help with this.” He started to walk towards the door so he could motion her out of his space.

“No, I’m sorry!” she said, looking as chagrined as she could, which was pretty mild really. She looked back at the dick pic for a second, then kept on going down the line again. “I don’t know shit about what artsy fartsy assholes on the North Side like, but these are definitely good, Mick.” She looked straight at him again. “I think you found your muse.”

He almost opened his mouth to gripe about such saccharine sentiments, wanted to call her presumptuous and tell her to calm the fuck down, but the thing was that he knew she was right. He’d been thinking it himself during his time alone in the shabby little darkroom he’d built himself in the basement of their rundown house. He’d definitely felt it all throughout the week he’d spent with Ian in Europe the previous month. For someone who’d never believed in love or romance beyond the beauty he could see in the stillness of a piece of art, he'd spent an embarrassing amount of time daydreaming about that handful of days. His very own ‘days of wine and roses.’

He wiped a hand over his face and fidgeted nervously, reaching for his smokes.

“What, you’re gonna clam up about your feelings now?” asked Mandy. “You wanted my opinion, but the subject is pretty personal, isn’t it? I’m not allowed to comment on that?”

Mickey lit a cigarette and tilted his head upward on the exhale. “Whatever.”

It was Mandy’s turn for an epic eyeroll. “Good to know that you’re still a steel trap about your emotions, even with your artistic sensitivity activated.”

He frowned at her, annoyed. “Alright, you can go now.”

Mandy huffed, but shuffled toward the door to let herself out. “Good talk.”

Mickey gazed around at the shots hanging around the room again, then toppled back onto his bed, contemplating as he smoked. He wondered what Ian was doing right then. Who he was with. If he was laughing that goofy, big laugh of his. If he had that stupid fucking twinkle in his eye. If he was thinking about Mickey half as much as Mickey had been thinking about him. He hoped he wasn’t being a dumb chump about the dude. Everything that had happened between them had felt very real at the time, and very reciprocal, but the fact of the matter was that they’d only been allowed a brief moment in time. Going back to daily reality had reset things. Who knew if the passion had been staled on Ian’s end. Who knew if he was the type to keep it in his pants. They hadn’t really promised each other anything. It didn’t feel like they needed to. But Mickey had never been close to feeling that way before, so he was clueless anyway. What was the etiquette?

He had no rights to Ian. They were two young men living two separate lives in two separate states. It was better not to ask, or hope, or _expect_. But it was really hard not to sometimes. Therein lied the rub.

It was better to focus his energy on his work. Even if the focal point was actually Ian himself. If he could just hold him and his image in the abstract, there was a lot less risk. If they never had another day in the sun, he would still have all these remembrances. Photos like time capsules. Creations like personal commentaries. Whatever he felt for Ian, his subject, would remain permanent here in these. No matter what happened.

He stubbed his cigarette out in the bedside ashtray and pulled a drawer open, fishing out a photo he kept inside it. His favorite of all the pictures he’d taken of Ian.

_They were walking down some Rue in whatever Arrondissement (Ian was the one who kept track of all the names of places, Mickey just knew how to look at the Metro maps to get them from one place to another when it was too far to hoof it). Mickey had his camera out, like always, and he was getting a mixture of snaps of architectural details, cityscape highlights, and local crowd flavor, but for some reason his lens kept inevitably pointing back toward Ian. It couldn’t be helped._

_They’d just eaten some really good food at some ridiculous frilly café with a waitstaff that openly hated them, and they were in an excellent mood. Inviting Ian to Paris had turned out to be a great move. Had he gone it alone, there might've been a certain amount of melancholy about it. He definitely would’ve decked the shithead waiter back there, but Ian had just looked at him and laughed, and it diffused the entire situation. He had this way of making Mickey feel light as a feather._

_Sometimes Ian would put his arm up to shield his face, or put his giant hand out to block the camera lens, feigning like a celebrity whose privacy was being invaded. He’d make stupid little comments like, “You take one more picture of me, and you’ll be hearing from my attorneys!”Sometimes he’d mug for it, batting his eyelashes and smirking like he knew a secret. He’d tease Mickey about being “ready for his close-up.”_

_On this occasion, he was trying really hard to act normal, but kept getting distracted and smiling widely at Mickey, looking straight into his eyes despite the presence of the Nikon. “Is this saunter casual enough for you?” he asked, and Mickey couldn’t tell you exactly what kind of magic was cast, because that was the beauty of photography. You didn’t really know when the moment of truth would present itself, it just either occurred, or it didn’t, and you just had to have happened to catch it. That moment, the way Ian looked at him, the way the light hit, the way his body moved, the way the fucking Parisian wind swept through, it revealed something very specific. It was simply honest. It looked like a perfect distillation of who Ian was. And maybe harbored some insight into what he meant to Mickey too._

Mickey smiled up at the picture as he held above his head, still flat on his back on the bed, and wished he could teleport himself back to that time and place so he could do it all over again.

He was turning into such a damn sap. It was pretty disgusting.

He forced himself up off the bed and walked around the room again, scrutinizing. Everything had to be perfect before he went to get an opinion on it from his old professor, Marion, who’d become like a mentor to him.

A couple hours later, his phone went off, Ian’s face appearing on the screen along with the incoming call.

“Hey,” he answered, grinning, because he couldn’t help himself.

“Hey Mick.” It was frightening that just the way Ian said his name made Mickey feel a little weak in the knees. It was kind of coy and sweet.

“What’re you doin’?”

“Walking back to my place. Just left the studio. Canvas I’m working on is massive.”

“Nice. I’m editing this series before I take it to Marion tomorrow.”

“The one of me?”

“Don’t sound so smug about it, asshole.”

Ian snickered. “Not self-satisfied, just regular satisfied.”

“What’s the difference?”asked Mickey.

“ _You’re_ the one satisfying me,” he replied in a sultry undertone that went straight to Mickey’s dick. He hadn’t been getting any action lately, except from his own hand and the occasional toy, so the slightest titillation could get him going.

“Not much I can do from here.”

“We can try Skyping again tonight.”

“Yeah, alright, cam-boy.” Mickey smiled.

“I’ll be your private dancer, baby,” jested Ian.

Mickey made a face. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the best.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. When are you gonna send me a pic of what you’re workin’ on?”

“Soon. Just wanna get it a little further along first. When you gonna send me the Great Ian Portfolio of 2018?”

“I’ll scan them after I get my trusted feedback.”

“I wanna see all of ‘em, you know? I only have a handful of phone shots from France. You’re only in like three of them.”

“I ain’t in most of these either.”

“Yeah, I know. You need to be your own subject more. I need a good portrait to enlarge and put on my wall here.”

“Fuck off, you’re not gonna put a big-ass poster of me up in your room.”

“Why not? You’re like surrounded by pictures of me right now. I’m not allowed?”

“This is a project, dipshit. I’m lookin’ at ‘em for the aesthetic.”

Ian snorted loudly. “You found a lot of aesthetic value in my cock?”

“Yeah, actually, but your cock’s only in a few of ‘em.”

“And those are your favorites, right?”

“No, actually. Nothin’ against your body at all, but in my faves, you’re fully clothed.”

“Hmm,” Ian hummed, like he was genuinely surprised by that news. “Which ones?”

“There’s one on the street. You’re just walking. I think we were near the Arc de Triomphe. There’s another one on the Metro. You were hanging off a rail, annoyed about that teenager makin’ eyes at you. One from Versailles. Before we banged in the bushes. And one at the Louvre. In that giant atrium with all the statues.”

_Ian was practically glowing, he was so happy. As if he hadn’t already been inside of countless museums and galleries in the past ten days. Granted, this one was pretty fucking impressive, which is why pretty much everyone on the planet knew its name. Still, he was like a kid in a particular candy store. It was infectious._

_It was only the third day he’d spent with Ian in Paris, plus that day and a half they’d been in Spain, but Mickey felt like he was addicted to the guy. He created this energy of a kind that Mickey had never really been around before. When they were together, it was like they themselves and everything around them vibrated or something. He wasn’t sure if it was some effect of where they were and how it seemed so far removed from his real life that it was something else entirely, but he wanted to keep that feeling for as long as possible. Wanted to keep_ him _._

_They were standing among 700-year-old statues meticulously chiseled by super-dead guys, and Ian’s face was almost all that he could see. Ian undoubtedly could’ve been a muse for one of the Greek sculptors of that archaic time. His body was on that level (though the dick was better, it should be noted). Mickey watched as Ian leaned up close to a likeness of some hot god or another, and snapped a photo that made it appear mirrorlike. Ian had looked at him, shaken his head, and rolled his eyes as if put out. But Mickey had caught another magic moment and saved the evidence for posterity. And he wasn’t sorry._

“Aw, Mick.” Ian could really say his name like that forever and it would be fine. “You’re so sweet.”

“‘Ey, fuck you, Gallagher,” Mickey barked. He had to at least pretend to save face. He may have gone soft, but he wasn’t a fucking chick or anything. “I ain’t that sweet.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that, tough guy.” There was a brief pause, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable. Then Ian said in a near-whisper, “I miss you.”

Mickey held his breath, then sighed loudly. He wanted to shrug it off, tell Ian to get a goddamn grip. Tell him to fuck off. Instead, he answered just as softly, “I miss you too.”

No point in lying now. Out of everyone he’d ever known in his entire life, Ian was the one person he’d never said a single false thing to. He didn’t know if that was something that could sustain itself forever, but it felt good to have someone he didn’t have to hide for.

  


* * *

  


Ian hadn’t told Mickey that the series he was working on lately was all related to him. He wasn’t sure why. Ian knew that his _whatever he was_ (they hadn’t labeled anything) was doing a series centered on _him_. It was very romantic, just like everything about his time with Mickey had been, but it was also kind of freaking him out. So he kept the info to himself for now. Until the time was right to let it be known.

He still couldn’t believe what had gone down on his European excursion. Never in a million years had he pictured meeting someone there that could coax these feelings out of him like this. And Mickey wasn’t even the kind of person he’d seen himself going for really, if he’d ever had those kind of thoughts about some composite guy that would encapsulate everything he wanted in a partner. But Mickey was just right, anyway.

Them having to be apart now was kind of a cruel joke, considering they’d grown up a matter of blocks from each other and never known it. But maybe it was also a good thing. As great as Mickey was, Ian had goals that he’d been working toward for years before the other guy suddenly became a factor. The blink of an eye they’d spent together meant a lot to him, but it wasn’t something he could just upend his entire life for. He had to stay the course. If Mickey was supposed to be an important part of his life in the future, then he would be.

Eventually.

It was definitely stupid to assume a long-distance relationship would work. Especially one with such a small foundation, but what the fuck were they supposed to do? This was what it had to be for now. That was probably why they’d never put a name to their relationship. Never said ‘boyfriends,’ or ‘together,’ or ‘dating.’ They’d quietly acknowledged that they were both unique in one another’s lives, and let the rest go.

They did vaguely promise to see each other when they could, though. Ian would be back home for visits, and Mickey had an open invitation to come up. It was under three hours away, after all. But they were both busy. Ian had school, and Mickey was always working on his photography when he wasn’t working a mechanic job he hated, just to keep a steady income. Weekends weren’t really a thing for him, and days off were needed to keep his humble career as an artist alive. Ian had signed up for summer classes, because he’d entered college late enough in the game, and he was really hoping to graduate before he was 25. He didn’t have many days to spare either.

They were both driven and just starting out. They had to be selfish, and not hold that against each other. It was already so crazy to want to even consider factoring in a person that had been a stranger such a short time ago.

Still, they talked almost everyday. Sometimes they had dirty phone sex. Occasionally they’d use Skype. It was casual, yet more intimate than any relationship he’d ever had. He’d never been in love, but he wondered if this blossoming depth of fondness and familiarity meant that was what they were heading toward.

Was he falling for Mickey? Had he fucking already fallen?

_“I can’t believe we’re doing this here.”_

_“Believe it,” Mickey replied breathily, licking into Ian’s mouth as he pressed him against the ancient, dusty cavern wall._

_Ian let it continue for a bit, before pulling away and giggling. “It’s kinda fucking creepy, though. We’re making out among all these old skulls and bones.”_

_Mickey just shrugged. “Yeah, well, they’re dead and we’re alive. They’d be happy for us.”_

_Ian snorted. “Well, I guess French people do love to french in public.” He was sick of seeing a billion straights making out on the Metro, or in the middle of a restaurant, or a park, or a doorway._

_They were getting hot and heavy, kissing in the Catacombs. They’d been walking around for ages, and Ian maybe had a slight worry in the back of his mind that they wouldn’t be able to find an exit. They were far off the beaten path now, and it was so fucking quiet._

_“Just—” continued Ian, “do you feel the stillness?”_

_“Yeah. We’re underground. It’s like when you’re in a deep cave or something.”_

_“But it’s more than that. It’s like… freaky.”_

_Mickey tittered and rubbed Ian’s arms. “It’s all in your head, Gallagher. What, you believe in ghosts and shit?”_

_“I don’t know. Never seen one.”_

_“Yeah, because they don’t fuckin’ exist. These are just bones, and this is just a really old basement.”_

_“Yeah, well, if it is possible to get haunted, then we’ll probly get some shitty spirit or another attach themselves to us before we leave. We already made out in the fucking cemetery, like we were goth teenagers or something.”_

_They’d strolled through Père Lachaise yesterday, and definitely gotten frisky behind some famous writer dude’s mausoleum. It was kind of ridiculous._

_“You really know how to turn me on,” joked Mickey._

_Ian let him kiss him again, a bit of warmth in a cold, dank place._

_“You do weird things to me, Mick,” he said when he pulled away._

_Mickey just patted his cheek. “Yeah, I know the feeling.”_

He still couldn’t believe he’d gotten horny amidst all that death. It felt out of character or something. But he just couldn’t keep his hands off Mickey. Social conventions be damned.

Ian made his way inside the studio space he used at school, to get back to the largest canvas he’d worked with to date. The good thing about being there for a summer session was that attendance was virtually cut in half. There were a lot fewer people using the art department resources after hours, so he got more much appreciated privacy while he was painting.

He mainly worked abstract, not really being one for precise life drawing. His brain didn’t really work that way. It was more about trying to capture emotions through color and composition. But he did sometimes use life-like elements, and in this case, there was an outline of Mickey’s profile, some detail in his lips and eyelid, at the center of it all, well, more right of center really, but it was the only real delineation on the canvas.

He’d debated whether or not to include Mickey’s glasses as well, but decided against it. Ian had been shocked to find out that Mickey wore contacts half the time. He apparently had sensitive eyes, and couldn’t handle wearing them for more than a few days in a row, so then he’d switch back to the thick black frames Ian had first seen him in. He did enjoy seeing more of Mickey’s face, but there was something really appealing about the hot nerd factor too.

He was a little bit nervous to find out if Mickey even liked his style of art. They’d seen plenty of Modern Art together while traveling, but those were masterworks. Ian was an amateur, and Contemporary shit was a little bit different than 20th century shit. If he didn’t, whatever, but it would feel really good if Mickey was genuinely into Ian’s version of an ode to him. He didn’t have words, or a thousand-dollar camera, but he had this. He didn’t know if it was good enough. He was so afraid nothing about himself or his work would ever be good enough.

He stayed in the studio for a few hours, mixing colors, and adding both small and large brushstrokes to different sections of the painting.Then he headed back to his small studio apartment to work on some boring Art History assignment.

He was in the middle of an essay when he got a text.

> Mickey: Sup

Ian smiled wide. It’d been over two months now since their time together abroad. He wished that he could invite him over to spend the night. He had no obligation to stay true to Mickey, didn’t even have the balls to ask if he was staying true to Ian or not, but he hadn’t slept with anyone since Mickey all the same. It wasn’t a thing he was used to. Going without sex had never been something he’d cared to do, ever since he’d regularly started getting it around age 15. He just wasn’t interested in anyone in passing anymore. He didn’t feel like hooking up. He did end up jacking off a lot, though. Like a lot. At least once a day, sometimes two or three.

> Ian: Homework
> 
> Mickey: Wanna take a break? :))

Ian snickered. Mickey only used smileys for one purpose, and that purpose was sex. Or whatever you called it when two people mutually masturbated together while hundreds of miles apart.

> Ian: What if I said no?
> 
> Mickey: You’ve never said no to me before.
> 
> Ian: School comes first. I come second.
> 
> Mickey: Har har. And when do I come, huh?
> 
> Ian: Gimme an hour. I’ll call you after I’m done with this paper.
> 
> Mickey: :((
> 
> Ian: You really need to stop with the emojis. Ruins your cred.
> 
> Mickey: I ruined my cred with you a long time ago.

Ian smiled and tried to go back to his essay, but his phone pinged again.

> Mickey: Remember Versailles?

Ian rolled his eyes, but a shiver ran down his spine all the same.

_He didn’t think he could feel actually enchanted by some fucking landscaping of all things, yet there he was. He didn’t give two shits about the palace, really. Sure, they had impressive gildings and tapestries, and the theatre hall was very grand, but the gardens were something special. Ian couldn’t quite put his finger on why, but they’d been exploring them for hours, and he was totally into it. They weren’t even saying much. Mickey was taking his requisite gazillion photos, and Ian was just kind of soaking it all in. Lying next to statues by a pond and pretending like he was some 18th century courtier. Sitting on a stone bench next to perfectly trimmed hedges, wondering if Marie Antoinette ever sat and read a book there. Wandering into some secluded little spot between some bushes, pondering whether or not any dandies in gray bouffant wigs had gone off to fuck there during some royal soirée._

_He’d turned to Mickey mischievously as he got stuck on the idea, arching an eyebrow. “Wanna bang?”_

_Mickey snorted and put his camera down, shrugging. “Okay.”_

_They kissed a little and undid their pants, and Ian pushed him face first up against a tree trunk, exposing his milky, meaty ass, squeezing it as he kissed his neck. Luckily, he’d been keeping his little tube of travel lube with him in case of these little moments while they were out and about, and he quickly prepped Mickey, and slipped on a condom._

_“Careful, don’t scrape your face,” he said, then pushed in._

_Mickey gasped and sighed, sticking his ass out more to get a good position against the tree._

_“You just worry about that cock,” Mickey responded, holding himself up firmly._

_Ian huffed a laugh and thrusted in rough and fast, holding on tightly to Mickey’s hips. He nibbled on the skin of Mickey’s neck, and licked up his chin to get at his lips. Their tongues met, tangling sloppily as Ian’s dick worked Mickey’s hole. They swallowed one another’s soft moans of pleasure._

_“You think two dudes have ever fucked here before?” Ian gasped out when he pulled away. “Right here, in this spot?”_

_“Definitely,” Mickey said, reaching down to tug himself off. Ian felt it in the way his asshole contracted around him._

_“Mmm,” he hummed right in his ear. “You’re so good.” He pulled back and helped Mickey bend further down so he could get a better angle, and a loud groan escaped the bottom. “Shhh,” Ian chuckled, and reached a hand up to quiet him, but he was spurred on, and bucked his hips faster and faster._

_Suddenly, they heard what sounded like German being spoken on the other side of the clump of trees they were in, and they both froze for a moment. It sounded like a couple fighting, but then German always sounded angry to Ian, so who knew. He just didn’t particularly feel like being caught balls deep at a historical landmark they’d paid to get into. Being dragged away by security was not on the agenda for the day. It sounded like the pair weren’t going anywhere immediately, but there was no way they could see them from where they were, so Ian started fucking Mickey again, hand still covering his mouth. He felt more than heard a moan against it, and the hole Ian was pumping into tightened around his cock again as Mickey jerked himself anew._

_A couple minutes later, Mickey was coming, and Ian followed as the spasms squeezed him from tip to base, he was buried so deep. He couldn’t help the loud groan that escaped, and he brought his hands down to rub Mickey’s thick, exposed thighs while he came down from the impact of his orgasm._

_“Was war das?” they heard the German woman say._

_It set off a laughing fit, and Ian swiftly pulled out. He felt wrong about littering in this place like it was some common cruising park, so he stuffed the used condom into a bandana in the side of his backpack. They dressed hurriedly, and ran off laughing until they found a large clearing they could fall back into the grass on._

> Ian: How could I forget?
> 
> Mickey: Call me now. Finish your paper after. I won’t keep you long.
> 
> Ian: You’re already jacking off, aren’t you?
> 
> Mickey: Maybe. Wanna see?

Ian sighed and set his books to the side. He couldn’t resist that temptation. His only regret was that it wouldn’t be Mickey's hand or body wrapped around him. He’d have to settle for his voice and his image. And the memories.

  


* * *

  


The day had finally come. Despite all their good intentions and promises to meet up as much as possible, Mickey and Ian hadn’t seen each other in nearly seven months.

Ian had the excuse of school kicking his ass, and he also had a part-time retail job to cover expenses his scholarship money and student loans didn’t, but Mickey should’ve made more of an effort. Yes, he had a full-time job at the garage to maintain, and projects going on in his off-time that kept him constantly busy, but he should’ve carved himself out a long weekend by now. The University of Wisconsin was only a few measly hours’ drive.

Maybe he was a little bit scared of what would happen if they were together again, and then had to part all over. Obviously, that’s how it would work if they stayed living in separate cities, but Mickey had no idea what he was doing, and yeah… actually, he was petrified.

He hoped Ian didn’t resent him. He hoped they wouldn’t fight. Mickey’d spent most of his life fighting people, and he was done with that shit. No fists anymore. Just a little yelling sometimes, but there was never any real heat behind it. No true insults, just his version of affectionate ribbing. He didn’t want knock-down-drag-out arguments, or bad blood of any kind. Besides, Ian had admitted some mental health struggles to him a few months back. Confessed he was bipolar with great trepidation. And Mickey didn’t give a shit, but Ian was worried it would somehow change things. Or taint them. He assured him that all Ian had to do was tell Mickey what he could do if he ever needed help. And that was the end of it. He let him tell the whole story at his own pace, in his own time, and it wasn’t even close to being enough to put him off.

It was Christmas break for Ian, and Mickey didn’t have any plans with his family. They’d never exactly been religious or traditional, and their parents had never cared much to make it a big deal even when they were small children. Neglect, indifference, outright hate, and all that. Ian had to be with his family, but all of Mickey’s plans revolved around him. Any free time they had while he was in town, Mickey hoped they’d spend together. Preferably locked away in his bedroom, fucking and talking. Ian was the only person he’d ever really liked talking to. He made him think about things he didn’t usually think about. He stimulated him. That’s probably why all of his work was now based on his ginger ass. Even the stuff where Ian wasn’t the subject still felt like it was somehow about him. Like he was ingrained in Mickey or something.

He showered thoroughly after his shift that evening, nervously pacing the floor of the living room, waiting. He’d kicked all his siblings out and warned them not to disturb him when they got in, and not to be disturbed in turn by any goings on they may hear behind his closed door. Mandy was liable to do anything she could to burst in and get a glimpse of Ian’s dick in the flesh. It was a thing she liked to tease Mickey about regularly.

At last, there came a knock.

The breath whooshed right out of his body, and he hesitated before pulling the door open, eyes wide.

Ian smiled that big smile at him, and his insides fluttered. “Hey, Mick.”

In lieu of replying, he stepped toe-to-toe with the redhead and pulled his face down so their lips could meet. They kissed thoroughly, with full-bodied enthusiasm, holding each other close, until Mickey finally came to himself, realizing that he’d never come anywhere close to making out with anyone on his front porch before.

“Come in,” he said, nodding toward the house.

Ian followed him inside, and they stood for a moment just looking at each other.

“You look good,” Ian told him.

“So do you, man.” Mickey smirked, feeling dumb that he didn’t know what else to say.

Ian was there. In his presence. Mere steps away from him. And he felt paralyzed like some idiot.

“It’s good to see you,” said Ian. “In real life and everything.”

“I know. I mean, you too.” Why was he so awkward?

“So… you gonna show me your room or what?” Ian gave him a knowing little grin.

“Yeah, fuckface, I am. Come on.”

As soon as they were next to his bed, Ian was on him. It was a frantic mashing of lips and tongues, and a frenzied tearing of clothes. Mickey’d never wanted someone more in his life. He _needed_ Ian’s cock inside of him, and he _yearned_ to have that larger frame wrapped around him like some kind of X-rated comfort blanket. It was fast and hard, but deep and sweet. It made all of Mickey’s inhibitions fade away, and his nerves along with it. Their connection was real, and immediate, and the distance and time hadn’t changed anything. Sex between them was on another level.

They lied wrapped up in the sheets afterward, sharing a cigarette. Mickey finally felt light again.

“You gonna show me your portfolio, or what?” asked Ian, rubbing the back of his hand over the skin of Mickey’s side.

“Can I catch my fuckin’ breath first?”

Ian swatted at him. “Just point it out and I’ll grab it.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, but obliged him, gesturing to the desk in the corner. Ian jumped up excitedly and went to grab the large black album. He brought it back over to the bed, and sat down facing Mickey cross-legged, before opening it.

“Seems appropriate that you’re naked for this, but I’m not sure why.”

Ian tittered. “You just like seeing my junk.”

Mickey just smirked and blew out more smoke, watching Ian as he began flipping through the highlights of all his best work. It was in reverse chronological order, so the stuff at the very beginning didn’t quite contain any of Ian, but it quickly got there, and although Mickey’d emailed him links to all their Europe photos, he hadn’t seen any prints.

Suddenly, he felt nervous watching him take them in right before his eyes. If anything, it felt like the months apart, they’d actually gotten way closer. But the distance made it easier to remain somewhat removed from the truth he knew deep down about what exactly his feelings were for Ian. This new immediate proximity was kind of terrifying. Seeing him going through the most personal pictures Mickey’d ever taken, that just so happened to have Ian as a subject… it was like revealing a secret he didn’t even understand himself.

Many of them had been on display at his most recent show a few months back. The most major one he’d ever been a part of. Marion had pulled some strings and gotten him a spot in a new artist showcase at a posh mid-sized gallery downtown. But even the scrutiny of experts wasn’t as daunting as Ian’s.

He scratched the corner of his lip with his thumb and averted his eyes.

“These are really great, Mick. They look even better as prints. More personal.”

“Thanks.”

Ian grabbed Mickey’s foot and shook it. “You getting shy on me now?”

He met his eye. “Fuck you. When have I ever been shy?”

“Nervous, then. I know it’s weird.” Ian gestured between the two of them with his finger. “But you shouldn’t worry. We just have to adjust to being together again. It doesn’t change what we have. It makes it better.”

Mickey sighed and stubbed out his cigarette. “Until you have to leave again.”

Ian looked back down and continued to flip through the portfolio. “It’s not ideal, but it’s what we’ve got right now. And besides, we shouldn’t think or speak of it until the day comes. We have almost two weeks.”

“Thought you were stayin’ with your family.”

Ian shrugged. “Technically, yeah, but I fully intend on being with you as much as possible. Plus, you can come over and meet everybody. We don’t have to shut ourselves away in here the whole time.”

“Cuz that would be terrible,” joked Mickey.

Ian looked up at him and grinned. “Awful.”

They fucked again within the hour. This time it was slower. Mickey might even call it _sensual_. The vibe between them was unlike anything he’d ever shared with anyone before. So many of his experiences with Ian were singular. But being tangled up together in each other’s arms after having decidedly soft sex was the most disconcerting of them all.

“I don’t wanna go, but I think I should spend my first night back at the house,” Ian said, face close to Mickey’s, resting on the same pillow. His hand was on the side of his neck, lightly caressing it.

“It’s cool. Go be with your family. Text me in the mornin’ and let me know when you wanna hook up. I’m off all day.”

Ian inched forward and kissed him chastely. “Okay. Tomorrow night, I’ll stay here. If you want.”

“Course I want,” said Mickey, pulling him into another kiss. He heard steps in the hallway and the door to the adjacent bedroom banging closed. “Actually… you should meet somebody before you go.”

“Mandy?” Ian beamed.

“Yeah. Stupid bitch won’t shut up about you.”

Ian smacked his chest. “I’m sure she’s not stupid, or a bitch.”

“You’ve never met her. You don’t know.”

“Well, let’s change that.”

Mickey watched him get up enthusiastically again, lamenting that Ian was finally getting dressed and covering up the body he couldn’t get enough of looking at or feeling up. He sighed heavily and rolled from the bed himself, looking for some sweats and a tank. He watched Ian the entire time, then grabbed a hoodie on their way out the door. They shuffled over to the next door down and Mickey rapped on the door.

“What?” Mandy spat harshly, throwing the door open.

Mickey said nothing, just tilted his head toward the man beside and slightly behind him. His sister’s eyes went comically wide, and she smiled more genuinely than she usually did.

“Ian Gallagher,” she said in a dulcet tone. “Fuckin’ finally.”

He watched as Ian awkwardly stuck out a hand for her to shake. Mandy just rolled her eyes and pushed Mickey aside so she could hug his… _whatever he was_ (they didn’t actually have a title in each other’s lives). Mickey eyed her suspiciously, since she’d never been much of a hugger. Only really ever hugged him when he was getting out of jail, or the time they were oddly and somberly celebrating their father’s death. Sure enough, he noticed her not quite subtly squeezing up the muscles of Ian’s arms before pulling back, then very openly checking out his pecs in the tight tee shirt he was sporting.

“‘Ey,” yelped Mickey, pushing her shoulder, “his eyes are up there.”

She flipped him off and sneered, then turned back to Ian coquettishly, grabbing his left arm. “Cool tats.”

“Thanks,” said Ian. “I designed them myself.”

“No shit! The ones under your shirt too?”

“Mandy!” groused Mickey.

Ian just chuckled. “Mmhmm. I’m an artist too. Mickey didn’t say?” he shot him an amused look.

“Barely,” said Mandy. “He doesn’t like to talk about personal details, or much at all that isn’t superficial bullshit, actually. I only know how important you are to him, because I’ve seen the photographic evidence.”

Mickey huffed and kicked her in the shin.

“Ow!” she growled, shoving him into the doorjamb. “You see what I have to put up with?”

Ian just giggled like he was delighted by their weird sibling relationship. “Well, if you wanna know anything about me, just ask. I’ll be in town until the 2nd.”

“Cool. I guess if you could bag Mickey in a week, you could befriend me in two.”

Mickey almost shoved her again, but he didn’t want to look even more juvenile and petty in front of Ian than he already had. Of course Mandy loved his charming ginger ass. Everybody loved Ian.

_They were at a gay bar in Montmartre, right down the street from the Moulin Rouge, and they’d had quite a few potent cocktails. Proper traditional mixed drink recipes that Ian had ordered, because Mickey had always been a no-frills drinker himself. Still, Ian wanted everything they did in Paris to be half-fancy. Said it was part of the fantasy. Personally, he was already sick of all the fucking fromage, and he thought macarons tasted like ass. Still, he indulged Ian anyway, because apparently he was incapable of saying no to the fool._

_There were a lot of hot elegant dudes all around them, and Mickey would’ve felt self-conscious if it weren’t for the fact that Ian seemed to have a laser focus on him, in spite of it all. That didn’t mean that there weren’t any eyes on Ian though. Every time he went up to the bar to get them more drinks, this one old French douchebag kept drawing amiable Ian into animated conversation. Mickey watched them carefully, making sure the guy didn’t try to cop a feel or anything, although he was one thousand percent sure that Ian could take care of himself. He wasn’t jealous. Ian obviously wasn’t interested in return._

_The fourth time the man talked to Ian, Mickey white-knuckled the edge of the table and threw back the splash of drink remaining in his glass. He was pretty sure he was mad-dogging the gray-haired, mustachioed fuck, as he could no longer control his reactions on account of the strong booze. God, their tab was gonna be like 100€ at this rate. Suddenly, Ian was pointing Mickey out to the guy, and they were both looking at him nonchalantly as he glared back, tapping his fingers harshly on the tabletop. Then the old guy was laughing deeply and clapping Ian on the shoulder. And then he slipped him something. Not surreptitiously, but outright. He handed over what look like small pieces of paper to Ian, and then Ian was leaning forward and they were doing that dumbass fruity European shit where they air-kissed cheek-to-cheek on both sides._

_Ian approached the table happier than ever, if a bit tipsy, carrying their last two drinks for the evening._

_“The fuck was that?” asked Mickey._

_“Oh my god, Mick, we lucked the fuck out!” Ian replied, setting the drinks down, and pulling whatever the dude had given him out of his front shirt pocket. “That guy gave us tickets to a show at the fucking Paris Opera House tomorrow! Like the main, historic one!”_

_Mickey snatched the tickets out of his hand, studying them closely. “What d’you mean_ us _? He gave ‘em to_ you _. These shits are expensive. What’s he expect for ‘em, huh?”_

_Ian made a face at him and took a swallow of his drink before responding. “He doesn’t expect anything, and I have no intention of giving him anything. We’ll probly never even see him again. He works there, and I told him about all the culture we’ve been taking in, and he asked if we’d made it to the opera, and I said not exactly, and he said that we must, and he gave me the tickets.”_

_Mickey stared at him in wonder. “Jesus, shit really does just fall into your lap, huh? Mr. Social Butterfly.”_

_Ian was still grinning like an idiot. “What can I say?”_

_Mickey swigged about half his drink down in one go. “He definitely wanted to fuck you, though.”_

_“So?”_

_“So…” What? Ian was right, it didn’t matter what that slick prick wanted. “Nothing, I guess.”_

_“Enough about that guy,” said Ian. “We’re going to the fucking world-renowned opera! Like proper theater queens.” He clinked his glass against Mickey’s._

_“Okay, you can shut the fuck up now. I ain’t that gay, but I’ll do your stupid opera shit.”_

_“Mickey. You’re the gayest guy I’ve ever known in my life. Lucky for me.” He smirked like a little shit, and Mickey couldn’t help but laugh._

_“Punk-ass bitch.”_

Mickey watched as his sister escorted his… guy… friend… person… to the couch in the living room, and went to grab a beer from the fridge.

No one could resist Ian.

  


* * *

  


The twelve days in his hometown flew by way too fast for Ian’s liking. He took advantage of every moment he could with Mickey, because they needed to sustain the feeling of being together for as long as possible. If Ian had harbored any doubts about Mickey before he’d come back to Chicago, and he really hadn’t had any major ones, they were obliterated within a matter of hours after they’d reunited.

Even Ian’s family liked Mickey well enough. He tended to fall pretty quiet around the bunch of them, but that left less room for him to do his usual sarcastic, foul-mouthed thing, so it was probably a plus. And when the two of them were alone together, it was just like it had been when they were away all those months ago. Ian had been worried that the novelty and wonder of their explorer mode in Europe had cast a spell that would fade away when they met again, grounded back in their regular day-to-day lives. But whatever it was between them was there over phone lines, and HTML, and in the place they’d grown up oblivious to their proximity.

“What do you think would’ve happened if we’d met each other a long time ago?” Ian asked Mickey during one of their blissed out post-coital moments curled up in bed.

“Fuck, I don’t know,” Mickey replied after a beat, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I wasn’t like this when my dad was alive. Couldn’t be out. Hated him more than I hated myself, but I tried to play up that macho shit a lot. Banged girls. Got into fights at least once a week. Sold drugs, lifted shit from stores, ran prostitutes for a minute. Don’t know where you woulda fit in.”

Ian scratched his face and rolled to the side, propping himself up on one hand so he could look at Mickey. “I used to be a stripper.” He watched as Mickey’s eyebrows went really high. “I mean, I didn’t really have anything to take off, but I gave lap dances and stuff. I went off the rails for a while. Was pilled out half the time. Went kind of crazy. Didn’t know I was bipolar yet. My family used to rob grocery trucks, and scam and hustle wherever we could. I know your dad had you doing a lot of hardcore shit, but I was a trainwreck high school dropout by 17.”

“So you’re sayin’ we coulda gone off the rails together?”

Ian laughed quietly, running a hand down the middle of Mickey’s chest. “Something like that.”

“Probly best we met now. Means we get a chance at a better ending.”

It was one of those quiet things that Mickey would sometimes say very casually, that burrowed itself right under Ian’s skin.

He could tell Mickey was scared, but it was the same kind of scared that Ian was. They still weren’t really saying what they were to each other, and they still had a don’t ask, don’t tell policy when it came to whether or not they’d had sex with anyone else while they did their long-distance dance, but they were obviously something special. Neither of them had ever been in a real relationship before, having slightly different, but complimentary reasons they’d never chosen to take anyone seriously. It was natural for that fear to be there, considering their mutual lack of experience, and aversion to meaningful bonding with other men. It was further exacerbated by having no foreseeable way to build on their foundation while they had to continue leading separate lives for at least another year.

And being apart wasn’t easy, even though they’d made a habit of having some form of contact every single day without fail. Not being able to touch was such an intense magnifier of passion. It turned into a yearning that ached somewhere deep inside of him. Somewhere both physical and abstract. Ian tended to be a fan of fierce denial, but he wasn’t stupid. A lot of what he felt for Mickey was something akin to love. It was obviously beyond mere like.

But no one ever said ‘love.’ Just like no one ever said ‘lov _er_ ,’ or ‘boyfriend,’ or ‘partner.’

The most outright of their sweet nothings were softly spoken ‘I miss yous.’ And Ian knew Mickey wasn’t the type to just say something he thought another person wanted to hear. He wouldn’t say it back just because it was expected. He meant it every time. That knowledge was cemented by their chemistry being resurrected in Chicago. Mickey had a longing for him that couldn’t be faked. He wouldn’t press to find out if it was in fact the L word. Not yet. But the signs were there.

Plus, Mandy liked to give a lot of her brother’s game away. Sometimes Ian would sneak off when Mickey fell asleep and he still wasn’t ready to nod off. He’d find Mandy and they would chat like they’d known each other forever. Mickey’s brothers were pretty taciturn and largely indifferent to his presence in their house or their younger sibling’s life, which both Mandy and Mickey had assured him was no big loss. According to them, their capacities for not caring about basically anything were their finest attributes.

A lot of the time, Ian and Mandy talked about nothing particularly fascinating, sometimes they’d just get high and play video games, but at some point, usually right before they turned in for the night, the conversation would take a more serious turn, and she would reassure him about Mickey. She’d tell him little bits and pieces about why he was the way he was, and he’d give her dirt on himself tit for tat. She revealed a lot about herself too, and they commiserated on the shittiness of men in general.

Just as a part of him wished he’d met Mickey ages ago, he also wished he’d grown up with a friend like Mandy. He could see himself at 15, in and out of the Milkovich house, being different things to each of them. Maybe he wouldn’t have felt so alone when he’d gone off and separated himself from his family for a time when he was still underage. When he’d missed his brother Lip the most, but couldn’t bring himself to face him, let alone talk to him like they’d used to.

But the past was the past, and there was no reset button. There was probably some alternate universe where they’d all met back in the day, but they weren’t living in it. So Ian let the idea go.

Ian spent Christmas morning with his family, but went over to Mickey’s in the late afternoon, a fat cardboard tube with a bow on it in his arms. He also had a smaller gift in his backpack for Mandy, a coffee table Taschen art book he’d found discounted at a bookstore back in Madison. It had kind of become his thing. He’d either give people art, or art books. He’d get his family and friends a little culture even if he had to shove it down their throats. They all thought it was weird that the Gallaghers had spawned an artistic type. Head-in-the-clouds Ian with his pencils and sketchbooks, shoplifting in the shitty art supply aisles at the local Michaels. Hiding out in the basement, because he had nowhere else to go in the house where he could be alone. He was always an outcast among outcasts.

And that was before he’d even told them he was gay to boot. Lip was the genius, and Ian was the dreamer. The family didn’t know what to do with either of them.

“The fuck is that?” Mickey asked, gesturing to the canister when he opened his door.

Ian smiled. “You know what it is.”

He saw the faint twitch of lips as Mickey turned away, expecting Ian to follow him into the house. “We never said we were exchangin’ gifts, asshole.”

Ian closed the door and set down his things so he could get his outerwear off. “I don’t care if you have nothing for me. I want you to have this.”

Before Mickey could reply, his brother Iggy walked through the room on his way from the kitchen, and pulled the old *cough* “Gay!” *cough*

Ian chuckled as he watched Mickey punch him hard on the shoulder and shove him in the general direction of his room, snarling, “Get the fuck outta here, dipshit, ‘fore I break your stupid-ass face.”

“Why don’t you go suck your boyfriend’s cock, and shut the fuck up,” Iggy volleyed back casually before shutting his door.

Mickey’s eyes were as wide as saucers when he looked back over at Ian. He wasn’t wearing his glasses that day.

Ian tamped down any outward reaction that wanted to bubble up, and just shrugged instead. “You wanna do this in your room?”

Mickey nodded, still looking taken aback, and he seemed to be frozen in place, so Ian kicked off his shoes, picked up his stuff and brushed past him on the way to the back corner bedroom.

He tossed his backpack on the floor next to Mickey’s desk, and sat on the edge of the bed, holding his gift out in the palms of his hands.

Mickey shook his head as he approached him tentatively. “Can’t believe you did this.”

“Yes you can,” countered Ian. “Just open it and stop being a weirdo, please.” He extended his arms farther until Mickey took the tube from his hands.

He took the cap off of one end and reached into pull out the rolled up canvas. Ian scooted down the mattress so that Mickey could use the uncharacteristically made-up bed to unfurl the painting.

It was a part of the series he’d done that included Mickey’s profile. It was only about a quarter of the size of the largest canvas he’d worked on over the early summer and the pattern wasn’t quite the same, but he almost liked it better. There was a bright teal stripe coming out of the bottom left corner, with a thin hot pink line dividing it from a tachist pattern in cerulean and tiger orange. That was his favorite section of the piece. The outline of Mickey’s face was done in metallic gold. The overall effect was fiery and bold, yet somehow tinged with melancholy. It was as much a representation of how Ian saw Mickey as Mickey's photographs were of how he saw Ian.

He watched Mickey’s face as he studied it, biting his lip as he awaited the verdict. He didn’t really know what reaction he’d get, but when Mickey gasped out an astonished kind of, “Fuck,” and looked at him with big blue eyes welling up with tears, he knew he’d hit the mark.

“Yeah?” asked Ian.

“Yeah,” he responded simply.

Ian reached a hand out and pulled him into a tender kiss. Soon, Mickey was straddling him, and Ian asked to press the pause button so he could gently roll the painting back up and set it on the desk for safekeeping.

Then nature took its course. Twice.

“You really see me like that?” Mickey asked in a hushed tone once his hard shell had been dismantled by satiation.

He looked so good, his pale skin almost shimmering with its sheen of sweat, his demeanor at its most gentle setting.

“Yeah, I really do.”

“No one’s ever drawn me before. Or given me such a personal gift. Ever.”

Ian nodded. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah, it’s okay. Be kinda hypocritical of me if it wasn’t. I took about a billion and one pictures of you in like nine days time.”

They both chuckled.

“You had my full permission,” said Ian. “From day one.”

“Funny you should mention that,” Mickey replied, getting out of bed, and walking over to his closet.

He fished out two 12x16 sized frames wrapped in simple brown paper like old-timey parcels. It was probably just grocery bags.

Ian smiled big and toothy as Mickey approached. “I knew you were gonna give me something.”

Mickey gave his patented eyeroll, and placed one present on each side of Ian’s prone form.

Ian sat up and rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

“Like you don’t know what they are,” said Mickey, taking a seat.

“I don’t.” They would obviously be pictures, but he wasn’t sure what of.

Mickey had the same apprehensive look on his face that Ian must’ve worn when he was handing over his own work as a gift.

Rather than drag it out any longer, Ian grabbed the one on his left and tore the paper off. It was a photo of himself from the first night he’d spent with Mickey in his little hotel room in Madrid. The day they’d met. Mickey had never sent him any of those.

“You fucker,” he said, looking up. “I’d forgotten these even existed.”

He looked back down and studied it. The lighting had him partially in shadow, and his body was twisted in a way he’d never seen it before. The tattoos that were visible popped with color, as did his hair, and he was gazing off to the side, but his face looked daring and alluring. His muscles looked defined like marble. His dick was thankfully hidden in this shot, and the curve of his ass looked more prominent than he ever saw it looking in a mirror.

“This is beautiful, Mick. Really.”

He could see him fidgeting in his periphery. “That’s all you. I was just there to see it.”

Ian shook his head at the typical false modesty. Or maybe it was genuine insecurity that made Mickey always talk down about himself, and his talent and abilities.

He wanted to keep looking at the photo, but he didn’t want to prolong the tension, so he put it down and reach for the wrapped frame to his right.

This time he gasped audibly. It was another photo Mickey’d never sent to him. It was of the two of them. He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten about it. They were at the Rodin museum. Outside in the gardens where all the best statues were. Mickey’d spotted a mirror through a glass window that housed one of the small indoor galleries and directed them over in front of it. Mickey had his glasses on that day, and he held the camera at navel level so he could get both their faces. Ian threw an arm over his shoulder right before he snapped a few shots. He had a small, content smile on his face, while Mickey looked kind of serious. They both looked equally relaxed, though. Like they were supposed to be together.

It really looked like the definitive portrait representing their time together on that vacation.

He stared at it for a long time, and if his vision got a little blurry around the edges, it was for a good reason.

“Well?” asked Mickey.

Ian met his eye. “It’s perfect.”

“I know it’s not like _subtle,”_ Mickey continued, as if Ian hadn’t answered. “I really debated for a long time about framing a landscape or a detail from some spot that we loved, but then I thought it might not be personal enough, so I guess I did the cliche thing.”

“Mickey,” Ian stated firmly. “It’s not cliche at all. It’s just right. It’s… how we started.”

He watched Mickey rub the back of his neck, a coil of nerves now, despite his nakedness and the fact that he’d just been soft like jello mere moments ago after a round of great sex. Ian gently placed both frames on the floor, and pulled Mickey close.

“Stop thinking,” he whispered, pulling him back down on the mattress.

They kissed languidly, then fucked in a slow build from a tender rocking to a frenetic pistoning, and Ian was relentless with Mickey’s body until he felt his guard fall all the way back down.

Maybe they’d never have to name what they had or what they were. They already knew how to show each other.

He didn’t know how he was gonna say goodbye once his break was over. It was fucking unfair that he couldn’t keep Mickey and have him everyday of his life until they both got sick of each other. It was gonna be so hard to leave this time.

_Mickey’s flight was leaving first, but Ian couldn’t bear the thought of not going to the airport together. He knew it’d probably be easier just to say goodbye in the city and take their separate trains to Charles de Gaulle, but rationality could go to hell. Nothing about he and Mickey was based in the rational. If he made a scene, then he made a scene. The rest of the world around him could go fuck itself. He had no desire to save face today._

_They went through the security checkpoint together, and Ian waited with Mickey at his gate. They chattered for nearly an hour about random banal shit, not daring to get serious again right up until the moment they had to finally part._

_Mickey looked gloomy, but he wasn’t tearing up the way Ian did. Which was fine. Ian was definitely the more emotional of the two. He’d already figured that out._

_“Promise you’ll come see me sometime,” said Ian._

_They were standing close together near a window, arms around each other’s waists while boarding announcements were called in the background._

_“Thought you came to Chicago all the time?” asked Mickey._

_“When I can, yeah, but I’m gonna be super busy. I may not even get back before Thanksgiving or Christmas. I can try, but I don’t know.”_

_Mickey nodded. “I can drive up sometime. For sure.”_

_“Promise.”_

_“I promise.”_

_“I know you have a lot of shit going on too. Just use my number. And don’t just text me. I need to hear your voice sometimes.”_

_He nodded again. “I’ll call you. And video you. If you think I ain’t gonna make you do Skype porn, you’re fuckin’ outta your mind.”_

_Ian giggled through the beginnings of his tears falling. “You’re the one hoarding all the dick pics. I expect you to even the score.”_

_“I can probly do that,” said Mickey. “For a price.”_

_“Shut up.”_

_Ian kissed him then, hard and deep, like they were the only two people in that terminal. Like they might never see each other again, because who’s to say they would. Things could happen. Things could change. It could be true what people say, that you could never really know anyone. Not fully. This could be the very end of Ian & Mickey, the unit, even though they’d just gotten started._

_The kiss made his head spin and gave him hope. It may be a naive hope. It may end up being in vain. But it was there. The possibility._

_The promise of a future could be real._

_He sat forlornly in a chair facing the window where the plane was parked. Watched it taxi out to the runway. Even managed to follow it until it took off. It was bizarre. He’d had a lot of people leave him in his life, but he’d never actually watched one fly away._

_The eight-hour flight into Newark felt more like eighteen. And he still had to connect to Wisconsin. He couldn’t turn off his brain. Or his heart._

“Promise me you’ll really come and visit me this time,” he said to Mickey.

They were lying in a gross, hungover heap on New Year’s Day, and Ian had to catch a bus the next morning.

“I will,” said Mickey.

“I’m gonna try to come back on Spring Break, but I don’t know if I can. It’s the best time of the semester to get shit done. No one’s around, and I can use the studio all day, everyday if I want to. My end of year project needs to be perfect. I have to ace it. So if you think you could take some time off, you could maybe come stay with me instead? I’ll sneak you into the photo lab. And you can be my muse for a while.”

“Sounds good.”

“Promise me, though. I can’t go another half a year without seeing you, Mickey. Not this time.”

Mickey looked into his eyes. “I promise. For real this time. I’ll take some time off. It’s not like you’re a million miles away. I should’ve come before, but I was just bein’ a pussy. I won’t do that again. I need to see you too. Need to lick your tattoos at least.”

Ian grinned. “Okay. I believe you. And I’ll hold you to it.”

“I promise,” he repeated. “It’s gonna suck around here without you.”

“It better,” said Ian, not really meaning it. He didn’t actually want Mickey to be miserable when he wasn’t around, but right that second, it sounded appropriate. Sadly romantic like some Victorian poem.

Mickey kissed him on the temple and caressed his cheek, and Ian promptly fell asleep, thinking that he wouldn’t let Mickey come with him to the bus depot just to watch him ride away.

  


* * *

  


The way he missed Ian in the weeks after he’d left Chicago was so acute it made an actual knot form in the muscle where his neck met his shoulder. He couldn’t bend or rotate his head around correctly, and it made him exponentially grumpier on top his deep sense of despair.

As if it wasn’t enough to be sad, he had to be fucking angry too. Everyone in the house was steering clear of him, the way they all used to avoid more contact with Terry than absolutely necessary. His verbal lashings over the smallest slights had gotten dialed up to 11.

He sulked in his room even more than usual, and fumed his way around the darkroom downstairs, desolate that he hadn’t gotten more shots of Ian while he was in town. They’d spent too much time holed up in Mickey’s bed fucking, and the rest of it hanging out with Ian’s crazy family. They’d barely even gone out into the world outside of their eight block radius. That's all it’d ended up being that had separated them for twenty years. Eight blocks. If one of their houses had been four blocks closer, they’d have attended the same schools. They were in the same district, but within different zones or some shit.

Mickey wasn’t the kind of person to ponder what might have been. He’d grown up surrounded by hard times and hard people, and that made him pretty fucking pragmatic. He never had time to lament the past, because he was always too busy dealing with threats in the present. He was constantly reacting, so wishing for something else was a luxury he couldn’t fathom. And it was like he told Ian anyway, meeting earlier would far more likelier have ended in a lot of heartache, even if it may have provided a kind of comfort that he lacked at the time.

Ian had turned him into a dime-store philosopher or something. They were always talking about all these… _things_. Big things, little things, important, inconsequential, deeply personal, and totally surface. It didn’t matter. They somehow covered it. He supposed that’s what intimacy was. Telling each other anything and everything that crossed your mind, and being okay with it. Wanting to reveal it, or sometimes just not being able to hold it back. It was like he was giving Ian the key to who he was. The most surprising thing about it all was how much he didn’t hate it.

The only thing he hated was the separation anxiety.

Within a few mopey weeks, Ian had sweet-talked him down, and Mickey got back into the routine of things. He couldn’t be the kind of guy who fell apart over some stupid shit like his _significant other_ being away for a while. He’d lived his own fucking life for 25 years, and he couldn’t lose himself over a goddamn _romance_ of all things. He may no longer be the FUCK U-UP kind, but that didn’t make him a pussy.

Still, the unprecedented emotional roller-coaster of the months since he’d met Ian pushed him to wanna hold onto all the good. And that’s why he kept his promise and drove up to stay with Ian for Spring Break.

They spent the week much as they had over Christmas… wrapped up in each other like a couple of total twats. Mickey would follow Ian to his studio and do his own thing while he was working, but if they were at Ian’s place, they were naked, whether they were banging or not. Apparently the two of them would make great nudists. Ian would draw Mickey in wobbly lines, calling it a study for future paintings, and Mickey would snap photos of Ian at the drop of a hat.

“Good thing I don’t mind having my own personal paparazzo shadowing me at all hours of the day,” Ian joked one evening. “I don’t know what you’d do if I hated being photographed.”

“If you hated bein’ photographed, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

Ian tsked loudly. “Bullshit, you’d totally be creeping around getting any shot you could.”

“No, I’m sayin’ you woulda left me in Paris,” Mickey said.

Instead of laughing, Ian had gotten momentarily indignant. “Don’t say that!”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “What? You some old superstitious grandma now? I’m gonna jinx the future or some stupid shit?”

“Nope. Our future is looking bright, Milkovich. That I do know.”

And for once Mickey didn’t feel like it was a lie to think that what was to come could be good. Great, even. Things were looking up for him after all. Not just with Ian, but with his work. The only work he did that mattered. Marion loved all his new shit. Said his third eye was finally broken all the way open, whatever the fuck that meant, and she had hooked him up with a very prestigious Chicago gallery. He’d already had two shows there. It was lame that Ian couldn’t be at either opening, but he was kind of there in spirit anyway. At least half the people he’d had to awkwardly chat to about his work had asked who the ‘beautiful subject’ was. Ian had asked if having his nudes on public display made him an exhibitionist. Mickey was pretty sure it was an attempt at a terrible pun, but he’d ignored it and said that it made him an art model.

“A painter _and_ a model?” answered Ian. “Guess that makes you lucky.”

Okay, and it was maybe finally starting to annoy him that they still hadn’t put a name to what they were. Calling someone his _boyfriend_ had always seemed a ridiculous, impossible prospect. Now… he wasn’t so sure. What other fucking word was there for what Ian was? Just because they couldn’t physically be together all the time, and they couldn’t go on regular dates, and they didn’t live in the same city. That didn’t mean they weren’t close, or that they didn’t really, really, _really_ like each other. God, the space inside of his head had seemed to be taken over by a teenage girl. It was dumber to think about how much he like, totally was so super into Ian, than it was to just man up and have the balls to just say the B word and admit that they were obviously in a very real and significant relationship.

Ian had ended up being the one to bring it up in bed one night in Madison. His tiny apartment was just like him… a hodgepodge of things that shouldn’t make sense, but somehow did. It was thrown-together and random, but comfortable and inviting.

“Remember when Iggy called me your boyfriend on Christmas Day, and you almost murdered him?”

“I did _not_ almost murder him. You’re so dramatic. I didn’t even make him bleed.”

Ian snorted. “Right, well, that wasn’t the first time someone referred to us boyfriends.”

Mickey rolled over on his stomach, resting his chin on his folded arms, so that he could look Ian in the eye. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

“Remember that French lady at the bakery near the Airbnb?” They went there at least once a day during their stay in Paris, because it was literally four doors over.

“Yeah, I couldn’t understand like eighty percent of what she said.”

“Well, I could understand about fifty. And she referred to you as both ‘petit ami' _and_ ‘copain' when we were talking. Those both mean boyfriend.”

Mickey sighed and reached for his smokes. “You got a point?”

“You know what my point is,” said Ian with a hard stare.

“Oh, do I?” He lit a cigarette. Obviously he knew.

“Just wondering if we’re a couple or not.” It was spoken very casually, yet that stare was still pinning him in place like a vice.

Mickey reached out and took hold of Ian’s crooked jaw, letting himself grow serious. Letting the truth be stated plainly and openly. “Course we are.”

The next day, just to be a smart aleck, Ian introduced Mickey to every stranger or acquaintance they came across as his boyfriend. It was weird, but he survived.

Ian dragged him to the tattoo parlor the day after that. Showed him some new designs he’d done. Asked Mickey if he would want to get one. His impulsive side took over, and he agreed, with the explicit caveat that they could not be matchy-matchy couple bullshit. Ian just made a face and asked him who the fuck he thought he was. They weren’t the same pattern, or the same color, but they still lived in the same universe. Mickey was hesitant to have anything colorful permanently inked on him, but Ian had somehow anticipated that, and the hues in his design were more muted and subdued than the ones in Ian’s. So now he had this kind of abstract-looking old-timey camera outline inked in black over a spattered palette of fall shades on his forearm forever.

Despite only being together for short bursts, and spending the bulk of their time interacting on calls, texts, and videos, Mickey felt at ease around Ian in this intangible way. It had been there since that first night in Madrid really. He felt at home in Ian’s apartment, and he didn’t mind Ian sharing his space when they were in Chicago either. The Airbnb in Paris pretty much felt like they’d moved in together for a trial period or something.

_He awoke to the unmistakable smell of strong coffee and the sound of something sizzling in the thick cast iron skillet Mickey’d joked would make a great bludgeoning weapon. He looked in the direction of the tiny kitchen and watched Ian slicing up a melon as steam and smoke billowed up from the stove beside him. Glancing at the kitschy old-fashioned alarm clock nearby, he saw that it was merely 7:30 AM. He rubbed his eyes, grabbed his glasses, put them on, and looked back at Ian, a little bit offended at how perky he looked at such a gross hour of the morning. He looked just as fuckable as usual, too, hair all tousled, face still soft. He was wearing boxers and a tank top, his big feet bare. Mickey still couldn’t believe that he’d found him, and asked him to come here together like it was no big deal. It was fucking crazy._

_The place they were staying at was small and practical, but so nice compared to where he lived, despite the building probably being at least a couple hundred years old. Everything here was old as fuck. Aside from a touch of dampness the aged materials seemed to add to the rooms within, it was pretty cool. America didn’t have any history compared to Europe. This place was pretty cheap and it had a fucking window view of the Eiffel fucking Tower. Ian had booked it with no problem at all, like right before they’d boarded the plane. Because when you were him, shit just worked out, it seemed like. Mickey had been able to cancel the place he’d meant to stay without being penalized, because Ian had somehow talked the tiny hotel into waving the cancelation fee with an elaborate story Mickey never would’ve been able to pull out of his ass._

_He watched Ian cooking for at least five minutes, before he was caught._

_“Hey!” Ian said brightly, with a big smile._

_Mickey frowned. “You always this fuckin’ chipper in the morning?”_

_Ian shrugged. “Not always. But I am today. It’s fucking Paris, Mick!”_

_He almost cracked a smile. “Yeah, I know.”_

_“You gonna get up? Shower now if you want. It’ll be about 10 more minutes until I have the food ready. We need to be on our way by 8:30, remember?”_

_Yes, Mickey remembered. Ian liked to sit in bed the night before a day on the town, looking up everything they needed to know about whatever they’d decided to do and see the next day. He was borderline militant about timetables, but at least never got upset when shit inevitably got skewed or delayed. He’d still make sure they fit everything intended into the day._

_“I’m just gonna lay here, buried in these covers and pillows if that’s alright with you.” He yawned._

_“Fine, but I’m gonna shower after breakfast, and that stall is way too fucking tiny for the both of us.”_

_“You take care of you, and I’ll take care of me, okay?”_

_It was a somewhat absurd statement to make, because Ian was in the middle of the act of taking care of Mickey that very second. And it wasn’t like that was the only way he’d looked out for him, nor the only kindness he’d done for him. And this unprompted big breakfast thing… it was so very… domestic._

_“Whatever you say, Mick.” Ian smiled knowingly, pushing something around with a spatula._

_Mickey dozed until Ian told him the food was ready, and he forced himself out of their double bed and pulled on his hoodie before shuffling over to the tiny table. Every inch of the surface was covered in dishes. He sat in one of the two wooden chairs, looking down at his plate of eggs, and sausages, and melon, and croissant. He had a cup of coffee and a glass of natural apple juice, and in the middle there was a small jar of jam, and a jar of the best fucking honey he’d ever tasted in his entire life. Ian’s place setting mirrored his._

_“Can’t believe you made all this shit before 8 AM. You’re touched in the head, man,” said Mickey, picking up a sausage with his fingers and biting into it._

_“Used to do it a lot for my family. No big deal.”_

_Maybe it wasn’t a big deal, but it was some kind of deal. At least a mild deal. Usually, Mickey's breakfast consisted of a cigarette, a bowl of cereal, and another cigarette. Sometimes there was coffee in between._

_“Thank you,” he found himself saying. Another rarity. Him saying thank you for anything in a non-sarcastic tone. Saying it and meaning it. Being grateful._

_Ian beamed at him. “Finally used that French Press. In France. I French French pressed.”_

_Mickey shook his head and shoveled some eggs. “You’re an idiot.”_

_“Shut up and eat your croissant with miel.”_

_Mickey rolled his eyes. “You ready for the Orsay?”_

_“I’m always ready for a museum full of classics.”_

_“By the time this trip is over, I’m never gonna wanna see the inside of another museum again.”_

_Ian gasped, pointing at the door. “Get out of my house.”_

_“This ain’t your house, tough guy.”_

_“Fine, then I disown you.”_

_Mickey couldn’t help a chuckle. “You never owned me to begin with, and we aren’t related, thank fuckin’ god.”_

_“I renounce you,” said Ian, eating a piece of melon. “Wash my hands of you. Send you on your way.”_

_He snorted. “You wish, gingerbread.”_

_“You’re getting pretty attached aren’t you, camera boy?”_

_“Fuck you.” Mickey grinned._

He wasn’t sure how much stock he should be putting in these trial runs, but the fact of the matter was that now when Mickey thought of New York, he imagined Ian there with him. It was almost certainly a terrible idea to start thinking so long-term already. Anticipating such big moves when they’d only just made things officially _official_ was utter stupidity. But Mickey really felt like it was what needed to happen. If he could manage not to fuck things up before they could get their shit together. Ian still needed to finish school, and Mickey still needed to save a lot more money. And neither of them were relationship types, so surely their mutual first attempt was bound to flop eventually.

So many variables could go wrong before they ever got a chance to escape together. But for all those undefinable reasons that kept coming to Mickey in little moments of revelation, Ian somehow felt like his constant.

  


* * *

  


Ian graduated after the following spring semester.He didn’t really make a big deal of it, but Mickey insisted on coming up to celebrate and help him get ready to move back to Chicago. He told the whole of the Gallagher clan to refrain from forcing him to turn it into a thing, and decided to forgo the ceremony. He just wanted the diploma, hold the Pomp and Circumstance.

Mickey took him to a nice, but unstuffy Italian restaurant, and gave him a really nice set of paintbrushes, some top-of-the-line tubes of paint in Ian’s favorite bold colors, and also said there was a proper easel waiting for him back at the Milkovich house.

It was the ideal ending to his time in Madison, in a way that was completely unforeseen. If anyone had told him he’d be graduating UW with a masterplan to move out of state with his talented artist boyfriend, he’d have told them to fuck off. He’d never had any intentions of being tied down after all. He'd spent all his time after moving away from his family home being a selfish prick with a singular focus. It was hard to find a path to success as a profitable artist, or even a living wage artist. Really fucking hard. Trying to do that, plus take some other dude’s feelings and needs into consideration couldn’t have been lower on his To Do list.

But they’d been together in one way or another for over a year and a half, and even though they’d only actually been able to be physically near each other a grand total of seven times in short spans ranging from five days to three weeks, nothing between them had faded or changed.

So they’d talked about it. The moving to New York dream. And they’d made the decision to unite their common goal.

“It’s gonna be fuckin’ tough, man,” said Mickey, when they’d last brought it up over the phone.

“I know it is, but it would be tougher alone. And besides, we’re fucking South Side. We know how to deal with hard times.”

“Yeah, but… I can’t… I don’t wanna fail. I could never come back here to this shitty-ass house with my tail between my legs because I couldn’t hack it in the big leagues.”

“I get that,” Ian replied. “But we won’t let that happen. One way or another, we’ll find a way to make it work. Even if it doesn’t turn out exactly like we pictured. Much dumber, less talented people have made it in New York. Look at our fucking piece of shit so-called president.”

Mickey huffed. “Don’t bring that asshole into this. He was born a millionaire to begin with.”

“I’m just saying… we can do this. It’ll be much more manageable if its the two of us, and you would be just as scared, if not more scared, if you moved there on your own.”

“I ain’t scared,” bit out Mickey.

Ian sighed. “It’s okay to be afraid, Mick. I’m afraid too. It’s only human.”

There was a long pause, but Ian knew Mickey was thinking about what he’d said, so he let it marinate.

“It wouldn’t make any sense for us both to end up in New York separately,” he finally concluded.

“Exactly,” said Ian.

“But it’s a pretty big fuckin’ deal.”

“It is.”

“But it’s probly the best thing to do really.”

“I think so.”

“I mean, what are we gonna do? Stay in this piece of shit? I've been needin’ to get outta this house for at least ten years. You can’t move back in with your family for good. This place has nothin’ for us.”

“I agree.”

“Fuck it. We gotta try sometime.”

“We do.”

“Okay, then.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Let’s fuckin’ do it, man.”

And that was that. He was moving in with his boyfriend in the most intimidating American city on the map.

But first, they had to wrap up their lives in Chicago. Ian technically still lived in the Gallagher house on Wallace, but he spent more than half his nights over at Mickey’s.

He’d continued his lucky streak and managed to get hooked up with an apprenticeship by way of a professor who had a close friend in Chicago that designed and built custom furniture.Ian had discovered a passion for building small structures as he delved into installation artwork, and got really into the act of hammering nails into planks of wood, and sanding down the rough edges of things before polishing them. There was something really satisfying about it. He loved painting, and that was still his main interest, but as a potential day job that was still in the periphery of his major, furniture-making was a really good secondary skill to invest in. And it was much much better to get paid for something he enjoyed doing, than to have to take up some crap-ass retail job, or push papers in some office, or intern with some boring gallery docent. He didn’t fancy himself a teacher’s aid either. He was done with academia.

It was good. He was getting paid a decent wage to learn a trade with the potential to sustain him if he didn’t break through the way he wanted to in the art world. It was smart to have a fallback. Furniture was all about design anyway. It was a different way to visualize his artistic ideas. And then you just needed to nail the execution. That was the hard part.

Mickey had left behind his day job as a mechanic a while back, and had been working at one of the only print shops still left in Chicago for going on nine months now.

The cherry on top of it all was that they both had bosses that knew a lot of people, because they’d accumulated decades worth of connections. That meant that they were getting help getting in touch with people in NYC that could potentially have jobs waiting for them when they got to town. It was a bit of a waiting game, just hoping to see positions open up. They were set on moving as early in the fall as possible, and decided that whoever got hired first would determine their move date.

They had boxes ready and waiting to go, only their essentials still occupying drawers and closets, not they owned a whole lotta shit, even combined. They weren’t gonna be taking any of their crappy family home handed down furniture with them, so it wasn’t like they needed a giant U-Haul. Mickey had already gone and had his old coworkers at the garage install a hitch on the back of his car. They could rent one of those small trailers to hook on and shove all their boxes into. The sensitive and expensive stuff could be crammed into the backseat.

They were living in an interim and everything about it was surreal. The anticipation was both nerve-wracking and stimulating to Ian’s overactive brain. Knowing that his life was about to change in this huge way, and that Mickey was going to be right next to him for all of it, made him feel like everything was actually going to work out someway, somehow. Like they were manifesting their own destiny, whatever that ended up being. Because even before they’d found each other, they’d wanted the same things. They’d grown up in the same shithole, never thinking they’d really be able to climb out of it, but they’d reached for the stars anyway. All they had to do now was grasp.

_They were strolling around Parc Monceau, Ian doing most of the chattering, while Mickey was engrossed by whatever he happened to be pointing his lens at moment to moment. At certain points, they would sit on some stone or metal bench, and Ian would do his abstract color sketches inspired by the scenery that he could later use as studies to make better paintings from._

_Ian didn’t think he’d ever bared so much of his soul to anyone in his entire life. Even Lip. And although Mickey was naturally less forthcoming, Ian was also pretty sure he’d never told anyone so much about himself either. He’d intimated as much, and there was nothing about him that felt like a liar. In fact, Mickey seemed to Ian to be the most honest person he’d ever dealt with in many ways. He was what he was, he did what he did, he thought what he thought, and he felt what he felt. There was a simplicity about him that complimented Ian’s nature to a tee. There was a profoundness between them even when they were merely being casual._

_“You really gonna move to New York one day?” asked Ian while they were beside a pond, surrounded by a Roman-style colonnade._

_Mickey just shrugged, still studying all the details around them. “I mean, I want to, but… you know, I barely know what the fuck I’m doin’ any given day of my life. Chicago is all I really know, so… I hope so.”_

_Ian nodded, pulling out a pack of Gauloises he’d bought that morning. “I was pretty freaked out when I moved to Madison. I had a roommate the first couple years, but I was used to my big family. Missed them a lot. It was weird being on my own, with my own separate life and all, but you get used to it. Change is good.”_

_Mickey looked over at him as he lit the cigarette. “Whatchoo tryin’ to say, man?”_

_Ian chuckled and handed over his pack and lighter. “I don’t know. Just that if one day,_ you’re _in New York, and_ I’m _in New York… after I finish school and everything… who knows what could happen.”_

_“What do you want to happen?” asked Mickey with a wry smirk, lighting his own smoke._

_There was a long pause as Ian considered how best to answer that without totally freaking Mickey out. Even though it’d only been a week since they’d met in that fateful Spanish museum, though, he could tell that they were on the same page with their burgeoning desire for one another. They hadn’t flat out stated what they wanted to happen between them beyond France, or what they could mean to each other, but there was no way something could feel so right if it wasn’t reciprocal, or going somewhere significant._

_“Everything,” he answered._

_Mickey just arched his eyebrows, grinned wider, and exhaled into the Parisian sky._

That’s what Ian thought of from the passenger seat as Mickey drove them past Chicago city limits; how, really, he had known that this would happen from the very beginning. He gazed over at his boyfriend’s profile and smiled widely, and when Mickey caught him watching, he smiled back.

Ian knew that he was sure about Mickey, and about himself, and about their futures, both as a couple, and as individuals.

He knew that they were meant to be.

  


  


*

**Author's Note:**

> [ ***Commission artwork by Steorie on Tumblr!*** ](http://steorie.tumblr.com/)  
>  ***  
> [ **You can find me there too!** ](http://thevioletjones.tumblr.com/)


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